Oblivion
by felicitea
Summary: Tomorrow, you'll be nothing to them. Your stories will be but statistics on history textbooks, numbers on a neverending death toll. As time ticks on, your faces will be forgotten, and your names will fade into oblivion.
1. Indebted

**Chapter 1**

* * *

**Prologue**

* * *

**Arran Caverly, Victor of the Thirtieth Hunger Games**

* * *

Livia spoke when Arran found that he couldn't_. _"Are you sure, Mrs. Rosen?"

_Rosen. _Arran twitched. The mere utterance of her name felt like a stab to his chest. Mrs. Rosen let out a laugh that sounded quite too forced and said, "It's not my decision to make, is it?" She gestured to her daughter beside her. "Shouldn't you be asking her?"

Her daughter was young, and the minute he saw her, Arran wanted to disappear. Her hair was too blonde and her face too round and her eyes too blue and all in all, she looked too much like _her. _

Keep your head up, Arran told himself. Stand up straight. Breathe steadily. Don't stutter. Don't slouch. Look normal. Look sane. Look _alive. _

Arran took a breath. "The Academy can only ensure that she's prepared," he said nervously. "We can't ensure victory."

Mrs. Rosen forced another laugh. "Are you trying to talk us out of this?"

All victors were artificial. Unless they were desperate, no parent would want to send their child to the Academy if they knew it only produced corpses and fuck-ups. The victors needed to do what they could to keep the delusion alive—the delusion that victory made you happy.

Arran didn't wear that mask well.

"No, ma'am," he said, his hands frantically moving about, "It's just that—"

"Just what?"

He opened his mouth to speak, but when his gaze fell on her daughter again, he found himself unable to let the words leave his throat. _Why did it have to be _her?

It was Livia that broke the silence. "If she really wants to, she should go ahead," she said. Her voice did not carry a trace any trace of anxiety, and Arran envied her for it. "But if you aren't sure, your family should not have to risk another loss."

_Loss. _Arran did not want to be reminded of it. It had only been a few months since he had left the Capitol, and though he had gotten better at coping, he still had his off-days. Today was one of them.

Mrs. Rosen's daughter was a reminder of everything he had tried to forget. She was the trigger, and the memories fired: the swing of an axe, the halted scream, blood, sweat, and the thud of a fallen head. They images played at the back of his mind, over and over in an unending cycle.

The young girl held her head high and looked at both victors, her expression solid, dignified. "We need this," she said. "We need the money."

Arran stared at her. Her eyes contained no anger nor hostility, and that made him feel all the more worse. She reminded him too much of a girl he couldn't save, and like her, she did not deserve to die. He didn't want that to happen. He couldn't let it happen—it wasn't right.

He would _make_ things right.

"If this is your final decision," Livia said, "I'll take you to the Head—"

"There are other ways."

All eyes fell on him. Arran gulped, fearful, as Livia shot him a glare.

Mrs. Rosen raised an eyebrow. "Excuse me?"

He swallowed. "For money." Arran amended. "This isn't your only choice. There are other ways. Better ways."

"My husband's dead. I have five other kids at home—none of them are old enough to work."

"I want to do this," her daughter added. "I have to."

"_No_," he said. The firmness of his tone surprised even himself. "You don't. I'm telling you: this isn't the only way."

"Well, what else is there?"

Arran searched his mind for an answer. "I...I'll help you," he said. "You don't need training, you don't need the stipend, you don't need any of this_. _I have more than enough for myself—I can give you anything you need. Anything."

Livia looked at him coldly. "If she wants it, she wants it. That's all that matters, Arran."

"She doesn't know what she wants!" He turned to the girl. "How old are you?"

"Thirteen."

"What do you have? Sixty, seventy years left on you?"

"Arran," Livia warned, "that's enough."

"It's a death match out there, that's not what you want! This isn't the only way—"

"_Arran_!"

Livia grabbed him by the arm, and Arran wanted to scream at them, tell them he was _sorry, _tell them they deserved better and give them as much as they could, as much as they needed, and hoped they would accept that desperate attempt to make up for everything he had taken away. But Livia had excused them both, dragging him off to talk to him alone.

She stared at him, her leering eyes piercing right through him.

Arran didn't let himself be phased. "She deserves a chance," he said. "She deserves to live."

"So does the poor sap the escort's gonna call if she doesn't volunteer."

"She shouldn't—"

"People are going to die every year, Arran. At least she'll be ready."

He said nothing. Shame welled inside of him but somehow, he didn't feel an ounce of regret. He still stood by his words — the girl deserved to live.

Livia gave him a cold look. "You're forgetting why we're doing this. We have people to protect. She has a family to feed. It's selfish of you think you're redeeming yourself by saving her."

"It's not like that—"

"I don't want to hear it."

With that, Livia left for the girl and her mother, leaving Arran to himself.

She was right. Their system was a good system. It worked for them. The Academy lured the needy with the stipend, and the desperate clawed for the opportunity.

The other districts had their tesserae. They had _this. _This way, the poor had food on the table. This way, the rest of them could remain living in safety and comfort, never having to worry about mutations or arenas or having their lives stolen away. This way, they survived.

But the system couldn't save everyone. The ones that chose to play became either martyrs, damaged veterans, or in the rarest cases, happy, guiltless victors. Arran knew that the sad truth was, to spare the unwilling from an unjust fate, it was necessary for people to walk that path. He couldn't sway everyone from it—but he wanted to do what he could to save whomever deserved to be saved.

He watched as Livia led Mrs. Rosen and her daughter away. It was final, most likely. She would try out, and if she proved herself competent enough(which, he was sure she would), they would accept her. She would train, and come a few years, she would be chosen to represent them. After, it was either she came back from the Capitol in a casket, or came back broken.

His superiors would scold him for trying to dissuade a potential volunteer from applying, but Arran didn't care. He'd killed the girl's sister. He felt that he owed her.

* * *

**A/N: _Yoooooooo._**

**That was a very informal-sounding introduction, and it probably gave off the impression that I'm casual and unprofessional.**

**Well, you're right. This is fanfiction, I should be allowed to be casual. And I'm definitely no professional—I'm just a tiny human being from some island near the Pacific Ocean. So now that you have a vague idea of who I am, here's a less informal introduction: Hello. Welcome to Oblivion**.

**This is a SYOT, so you know the drill! The form, rules, and guidelines are all on my profile, and I suggest that you read them, because as you can see, Career's work a lil' bit differently in my universe.**

**Review if you can, and good luck creating your tributes! :)**


	2. Shackles and Shells

**Chapter 2**

* * *

**Prologue**

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**Livia Penvarden, Victor of the 27th Hunger Games**

* * *

_Freedom. _

Livia had been fighting for it her whole life. She had fought to be free from poverty. She had fought to be free from the games. To this day, she still continued to fight. To be free from the nightmares. From the anxiety. From the dread, the fear, the guilt.

But this was Panem. Nobody could truly be free.

They called her back to the Capitol that night. Her visits had always been sporadic yet frequent; she never knew when to expect to be called back. It was a good thing her mind was always prepared for the worst. Fear was a given, but she swallowed it before it could swallow her.

There was only one other person in the holding room. Another victor—nearly her age. When she took a seat across him, he shot her a hostile glare.

It didn't take a genius to figure out why.

In the eyes of the Districts, the Careers were sadists. To them, they were self-centered savages who slaughtered the innocent as they sought out glory, apathetic to suffering, indifferent to pain. And with every despicable thing they did, the Capitol showered them with praise. It wouldn't make sense for the districts to feel anything but loathing.

The districts looked at them and saw monsters. The Capitol looked at them and saw toys.

Livia tried to not let it bother her. None of it was true. District One didn't fight for bloodlust. They didn't fight for Capitol entertainment. They fought for _themselves_.

They took the odds in their own hands.

As she remained in her seat, Livia could still sense the hostility radiating from the other victor. Every once in a while, he would glance at her, his eyes betraying obvious distaste.

"Is there a problem?"

The man glowered at her. "Yeah," he spat. "_You_."

Livia wanted to roll her eyes. "Funny," she deadpanned. "I hadn't spoken a single word to you until now. You know, normal people don't usually find silence this abhorrent."

"_You're_ abhorrent!"

"And you're ridiculously judgmental."

"It's true," he said, leering. "Look at you. Look at your kind. What you do is disgusting, it's despicable— it's– it's _wrong_!"

Livia didn't let herself be fazed. "What we do is we protect our own. Is that so wrong?"

"Protect your own?" The man laughed derisively. "Arran Caverly beheaded his own district partner!"

Livia shot him a piercing glare. "Don't act as if you hadn't had to hurt anyone to get to where you are."

The man's eyes widened. As Livia glowered at him, he shrunk back, his eyes darting away from her gaze.

He swallowed. "I only did it to survive."

"So did Arran."

"Well," he said bitterly, "at least I regret it. At least I feel _sorry_."

Livia Penvarden had always had a shell that kept her together by holding everything inside. It kept her reserved. It kept her sane. But somehow everything— all the anger, the fear, the anxiety — only continued to grow larger and larger inside of her, despite how hard she had tried to keep them hidden away.

That shell shattered.

"So choosing to wallow around in self-pity somehow makes you better than us?" Anger coursed through her veins—her voice rose with every word. "Fine. Then I'm sorry too. I'm sorry your brainless district doesn't know how to adapt to this world. I'm sorry you think drowning in yourself in misery makes you a better person. I'm sorry you would rather hate yourself than move on. I'm sorry you think I have to _apologize_ for _trying to survive._ I'm _sorry_," Livia paused, taking in a breath, "that _you_ know _nothing_."

The room fell silent.

Livia didn't say another word to the man. She didn't look at him nor speak to him for the rest of the evening. He wasn't worth her time.

Soon, the escort called outside. As she watched him leave, she saw his expression sink from anger to fear to sullenness. She almost pitied him. Almost.

But she regretted none of it.

The only reason the districts loathed them so much was because it was the Career children came that home, not theirs. But District One did what it could for its tributes. It taught them to fight, trained them to win. The outer districts did nothing.

They had no right to complain about losing a game they never learned to play.

The districts were too blinded by hatred to remember who the real enemy was. And every god-forsaken visit to the Capitol reminded Livia that the Career districts were not the enemy. The outer districts were not the enemy.

"Ms. Penvarden," an escort called out. "Your client is waiting for you outside."

Livia felt fear chill down her spine. But she pieced her shell back together and held it in. Nobody was allowed to see her weak. As she walked out, she held a solid expression. She refused to present herself as anything but dignified.

The districts looked at them and saw monsters. The Capitol looked at them and saw toys.

Livia tried not to let it bother her. It wasn't the truth. They were wrong in their judgments, wrong in their views. But there was a big difference between the districts and the Capitol.

_Power._

And judgment – in the hands of those with power – became the truth.

The guards escorted her outside. There, a man waited, malice etched on his face.

She saw him and saw the hunger in his smile. She saw him and saw the desire in his eyes. She saw him, and she remembered: the districts were not the enemy.

District One could adapt. They could roll with the punches, learn to take the blows and work their way through the system. They could train to fight and learn to play the Capitol's game, but in the end—they would never learn to _beat _it. And that was that. There was nothing more they could do.

Because this was Panem. They would never truly be free.

* * *

**A/N: Submissions are still open! This chapter's just here for extra space in case your blog reviews get too long. **

**Just kidding. It's here for worldbuilding. Thanks for reading! :***


	3. Funny

**Chapter 3**

* * *

**Prologue**

* * *

**Kegan Denholm, Victor of the 29th Hunger Games**

* * *

_Victorious_.

It was such a funny word. After all, what had he won but a life condemned?

At its worst, Kegan's mind was plagued by three images: blood on his hands, hands on his body, and his body, bleeding red.

He couldn't decide which was worst.

Booker was standing by the kitchen door when Kegan got home. "You alright?"

Kegan nodded weakly. There were too many words swimming in his mind, too many feelings that fought to be felt. All Kegan could do was will himself to put a smile on his face. As soon as Booker looked away, he let it falter.

As Booker went to the kitchen, Kegan trudged behind him. Grabbing a bottle from the table, Booker looked at him and said, "I didn't drink today."

Kegan managed another feeble smile. "That's good."

For a fleeting moment, he felt grateful. It was a relief to discover that his alcoholic mess of a mentor cared enough to hold off his desires and wait for him, but that fraction of reassurance dissipated as soon as it had hit his heart. It was almost as if he hadn't felt it at all.

Optimism was an impossibility.

Booker poured a glass and held it out to him. Kegan took it, reluctant. Shaking hands brought it to his lips, and for a brief moment, he considered drinking, but something held him back.

Blood on his hands. Hands on his body. His body: a mess of blood and bruises.

It wouldn't leave him, it never had. The longer he left the feelings to fester, the larger they grew.

He couldn't hold them in anymore. His heart pounded in threes as he breathed a rhythm, each successive gasp shrinking by a fraction of a beat. Overwhelmed, he let out a scream.

He hurled the glass across the room. It shattered as it collided with the wall.

As his legs gave in from underneath, Kegan fell to his knees. Slowly, he let himself lie on the floor.

Booker crouched over to sit beside him. He offered a gentle smile, but the attempt at reassurance was adulterated by worry lines etched on his face. Kegan looked away.

He drew a breath. "I want to die."

Booker let out a weary laugh. "Funny, isn't it?" It was less of a question, more of a worded sigh. "Funny how they force us to fight for our lives then make us loathe every second of living."

Kegan stared listlessly at the ceiling. "I don't think 'funny' quite cuts it."

Booker said nothing.

When Kegan came home from the arena, his own girlfriend couldn't even look him in the eyes. His mother's face was tear-struck, and his father only leered in disgust. Anger and disappointment had fused together to create something that looked a lot like hate.

_I just wanted to live, _he had told them.

It was the last they'd ever said to each other.

The people he once loved wanted nothing to do with him. Yet, Arran Caverly could come home to the family of the girl he'd beheaded and be revered as a hero. Could he look the girl's mother in the eyes and not feel ashamed?

Kegan bet he could.

He loathed the Careers because they were revered for the very same reasons his family condemned him. He loathed them because they felt pride for all the same reasons Kegan wanted to point a gun at his own head. He loathed them because they were stable, because they could still hold themselves in dignity, because they were and had everything that he himself could not.

He loathed them because if he'd been born one of them, he wouldn't have had to loathe himself.

_I'm sorry you'd rather hate yourself than move on._

Her words had stung, but her words were right.

Kegan turned to Booker. "Tell me why I shouldn't just kill myself right now."

"Twenty-three lives lost in our place," Booker said. "We should feel grateful, shouldn't we?"

His words said _grateful_, but his tone disagreed. Kegan knew the truth. Booker couldn't have, not when he squandered his time away, jumping at every opportunity to evade sobriety. Both of them knew what their real answer was.

_We should. _

"_But we don't_._" _Kegan lowered his head. "So it's not enough."

"You asked me a question, I gave you an answer."

"What I want," Kegan said, "is a reason."

Booker sighed. Despite himself, he replied. "Cera."

"She's married now."

"Doesn't mean she won't forgive you."

"She won't. I know Cera. She won't."

"Your family."

"They hate me."

"Beer."

"Tastes awful."

"Me."

Kegan leered at him. "Don't be selfish."

"Selfish?" Booker glowered back. "I'm only trying to help. And you're making this hard for me. Why ask me for a reason to live when it's obvious you think there's none?"

Kegan's eyes widened, angry. For a short second, he opened his mouth for a retort, but soon, Booker's words hit him like a wave.

The man had a point.

Kegan wanted to laugh. Victorious was such a funny word. After all, what had he lost?

His family. His freedom.

What had he lost?

Nights without nightmares, stability, his humor, his optimism, his pride, his innocence.

What had he lost?

The ability to look at a mirror and not loathe what he saw.

What had he lost?

Himself.

If life came at that cost, was it worth it?

Funny didn't quite cut it, but funny was the only word he could find. He was alive because he had feared death. But now, he craved it more than anything.

He smiled a little bit, sullen, forced, derisive. "You're right," Kegan said. "There's none."

* * *

**oblivionhungergames . blogspot . com**

* * *

**District One**

Westyn Arevalo (18)

Owen Brassard (18)

**District Two**

Devonna Averett (18)

Alude Carielle (18)

**District Three**

Varia Boulton (17)

Chandra Kiel (16)

**District Four**

Adrienne Cruso (18)

Icarus Valera (18)

**District Five**

Ziva Langely (18)

Nyko Amadore (18)

**District Six**

Pax Burgess (14)

Jesper Sargent (18)

**District Seven**

Neleh Tourrey (17)

Elian Thayne (17)

**District Eight**

Ara Midias (15)

Grant Bentley (17)

**District Nine**

Calia Ventiere (16)

Altair Ravvos (18)

**District Ten**

Briana Korbick (15)

Mateo Avener (18)

**District Eleven**

Delaney Lauris (17)

Edric Revian (18)

**District Twelve**

Tawni Prior (17)

Tobias Collett (16)

* * *

**This is probably the most misleading chapter title in existence.**

**To everyone that didn't get in, I apologize, but thank you for taking the time and effort to create a tribute for this story. It means a lot, really. And to those who did – thank you, and congratulations! I'm looking forward to writing your tributes. :)**

**Unfortunately the next update isn't going to come anytime soon, because I'm going to be out of the country for two weeks(Japan, holla!) starting tomorrow, so I'm not gonna have a lot of time to write, but I'll definitely try my best to. So, until then, see ya! ****The bulbasaurs are waiting for me.**

* * *

**Questions!**

**Which tributes stood out to you?**

**Any early favourites?**

**A chart would be nice. Is this a question? No. It isn't. But a chart would be nice.**


	4. Perhaps

**Chapter Four**

* * *

**Devonna Averett, 18, District Two**

* * *

"And your female tribute for this year is," the head trainer paused, letting her words hang in the air, "Devonna Averett!"

Devonna took slow, graceful strides to the front of the room. All eyes fell upon her as she arrived, and Devonna smiled, reveling in the attention.

As she stood in front of them, Devonna scanned the crowd before her. There had been applause, but rather muted— and Devonna understood why. From the beginning, it was obvious that the rest of the trainees saw the selection ceremony as less a celebration for her sake, and more a celebration of their reprieve.

They weren't celebrating her success. They were celebrating for themselves. Celebrating the fact that their sorry asses were saved from being sent to their deaths.

But she didn't let that worry her. In fact, it made her proud.

Devonna wasn't anything like them.

Devonna believed in herself.

To others, it was a complete mystery why, of all people, it was the brainless girl that got selected. But to Devonna, the answer was as simple as her simple mind could comprehend.

The rest of them were too insecure, too afraid. Devonna didn't understand any of it. Fear was a foreign concept to her. She found that it was fairly easy to defeat– all they had to do was simply push the negative thoughts aside, ignore their existence, and not think about them.

And _not thinking _was Devonna's specialty.

"And your male tribute," the head trainer announced, "Alude Carielle!"

A tall, muscular boy made his way to the front. When he got to the stage, the head trainer took both their hands and held them high in the air.

"Your tributes, Alude Carielle and Devonna Averett!"

She let go. Devonna faced Alude, both of them extending their hands for a shake.

Alude took her hand, shaking it firmly. "Hey… I just wanted to say," the boy spoke with so many pauses that Devonna could almost see ellipses floating in the air, "Uh… good luck."

Devonna raised an eyebrow. "Luck?" she scoffed. "I'm Devonna Averett. I don't need luck."

"Well." With a polite smile, he let go of her hand. "I wish you the best anyway."

Devonna only smiled.

After the ceremony ended, people—trainers and trainees— offered them their congratulations. Alude shied away in timidity, but Devonna basked in the attention.

"Devonna?"

Devonna turned around. The voice belonged to a girl not much younger than her. "I," the girl said, "I have a question."

"What is it?"

The girl fiddled her fingers. "The trainers told me that if I kept up, I would get selected—but," she paused, fidgeting slightly, "I'm not quite sure if I'm ready—or if I still want to. But if I quit, they'll take away my stipend, my benefits— we can't afford that. Do you think I should?"

Devonna offered a small smile of reassurance. "Don't give up just yet," she said. "I mean—you still have about five years left to think about it. That's more than enough."

"I'm sixteen."

"That's what I just said. You're sixteen. You still have about five years left to think about it."

Most people believed that Devonna had nothing in her head. This, of course, was but a popular misconception— every cubic centimeter of cranial space had been very much occupied.

(By air.)

The younger girl looked at her, puzzled, but quickly, she shook the expression off. Worry replaced the confusion on her face. "Isn't it scary?"

"I find that there's nothing to be afraid of."

"You could….um… you could…" the girl slid a single finger across her throat, making choking sounds. "You know…"

A composed smile graced Devonna's features. "Yes," she said, flipping hair out of her face. "I definitely know."

Devonna did not know.

"So," the girl's eyes were wide with concern, "it doesn't scare you?"

"Not one bit."

Truth be told, Devonna had no idea what 'it' was, but it was easy to pretend she did. Because that was what life was: a game of pretend. She had become so good at it, that all the world believed in the confidence of her invented self.

And the best part was: she did too.

"Well," the girl said, smiling nervously. "Good luck, then."

To that, Devonna only laughed.

"I'm Devonna Averett," she said. "I don't need luck."

* * *

**Nyko Amadore, 18, District Five**

* * *

The air was full of dread, full of fear.

Nyko didn't let it get to him. It was his last year, after all. The chances of his name getting called were as slim as they could be. Sure, he had taken tesserae, but thousands of other kids had done so, too. He didn't see why he needed to worry.

He waved as he found his friends right outside the crowd, talking amongst themselves. Alera responded with a beaming smile, but Ezra simply stared at him, his eyes betraying shock.

When he got to him, Nyko raised an eyebrow. "Is something wrong?"

"Naw man," Ezra said. "It's just, well—look at you." He poked at Nyko's cheek, as if trying to assess the actuality of its existence. "You actually _shaved_."

Nyko let out a hearty laugh. "Well, I didn't want to look like a mountain man in front of the cameras."

Alera offered him a warm smile. "I think it looks good," she said. Nyko grinned sheepishly, his cheeks flushing red.

"It's weird," said Ezra. "No offense, dude, but you look like a potato."

Alera rolled her eyes. "Says the boy who looks like a string bean."

Ezra put a hand to his chest. "String bean?" His eyes widened dramatically. "That is far beneath my level. I am no string bean, dear Alera. If I'm anything, I'd be a fine, _fresh_ piece of asparagus."

"More like _ass_paragus."

Alera smirked, and soon enough, she and Nyko had broken into a fit of laughter. Ezra narrowed his eyes at them, unamused.

"Gee," he said. "I hope you guys get reaped."

"Now now, there's no need to get salty," He put a hand on Ezra's shoulder. "If we do get reaped, we don't want _these _to be the last words we'd said to each other, do we?"

Ezra smiled an easy smile. "You know I didn't mean it, Nyko," he said. "But alright, I apologize." He turned to Alera. "I _don't_ hope you get reaped."

Alera pointed a finger at herself. "Ineligible," she said, her lip curling smugly. "Which reminds me—I gotta go. The program's about to start. See you."

With a lopsided grin and one last wave goodbye, Alera left.

Nyko and Ezra headed off to to their section. As they made their way across, boys pushed their way through the crowd, many shoving aside those who got in their way. Ezra grunted in irritation, but Nyko simply smiled and let them have their way.

"You're such a pushover," Ezra told him. "Literally."

Nyko shrugged it off. There was no need to get offended if it wasn't true—and likewise, there was no need to get angry at people who didn't mean any harm. Those boys meant no malice. They simply let their impatience get the best of them. He didn't see any reason to feel resentful.

People were selfish, but that didn't mean Nyko needed to be. The world was full of self-centered people who fought and stepped over each other, competing with one another over the little the world had to offer. If everyone simply remembered to think of others first, the world would be a better place. Nyko was only happy to contribute.

He was calm when the Escort pulled out a name from the reaping bowl. Worrying was a waste of both time and energy. It just wasn't likely. Nyko had always thought of himself as a background character, living a simple, uncomplicated existence. The Hunger Games was the opposite. It was a spectacle, a story, a tragedy – and he thought himself lucky, because it had never become his.

Until now.

"Nyko Amadore!"

Nyko's mouth fell open. His eyes widened, staring blankly in disbelief. It took a while before he realized he had stopped breathing, and in that same moment, he felt as if the world had frozen in place, with no sound nor movement but the rapid pounding of his heart.

"Nyko!"

Ezra's voice snapped him back to reality. "Nyko," he repeated. Eyes wide with concern, Ezra grabbed Nyko's wrist, saying, "Nyko, it's okay. You're still safe. Just breathe."

And Nyko did. The fear brimmed and bubbled away his inside of him, but he willed himself to swallow it.

Ezra let go. "You can do this."

Steadying his shaking legs, Nyko walked the stage, each step calculated as not to falter. It took everything in him to feign composure.

All his life, Nyko had only known and wanted peace. He was not killer. He was not a fighter. But he was definitely not an idiot.

He knew what needed to be done.

"Ladies and Gentlemen, your tributes, Ziva Langely and Nyko Amadore!"

Nyko faced the crowd. For a while, he feared that the mask would slip, but somehow, he managed to hold the anxiety inside. Lying was no strength of his, but he at least forced himself to pretend. Ezra's words played at the back of his mind. _You can do this. You can do this._

_This is a show_, he told himself. _So give them a show._ As he stared at the audience before him, he took a breath and held his head high, willing his lips to form a proud smile.

He didn't want to fight—but that didn't mean he couldn't _play._

* * *

**Pax Burgess, 14, District Six**

* * *

Pax wiped the blood off of her mouth. "That's what you get," she spat. "_Thief."_

She sent the battered man another forceful kick to the stomach, and her brother sneered as their victim cried out.

He smiled at her. "Wonderful job, sis."

Pax looked at him, beaming. "Thanks."

She turned back to their victim. The battered man tried getting up, but Pax was faster. With a swift swoop of her leg, her shoe connected with his face, hitting bone. Blood gushed out of his nose. He let out another pained cry as Pax kicked him once more.

Pax smirked. Something about swinging fists and swooping legs had always sent a rush of ecstasy surging through her veins. But as she was about to hit the man with yet another kick, footsteps echoed through the walls of the alleyway. Pax whipped around, fists balled, muscles tensed.

A tall man ran to them, his face contorted in rage. Once Pax had recognized him, she let herself relax. Despite his obvious anger, she had felt no fear. She knew that face all too well. He was no threat to her.

"What do you think you're doing?!" he screamed.

A broad grin spread across her brother's face. "Just giving the thief what he deserves."

"We got the goods back, boss," Pax said, smiling proudly.

The tall man narrowed his eyes. "Don't call me boss."

"Okay, _Dad_," Pax rolled her eyes. "And I don't see why you're so angry. We found the thief. We got the stuff back."

"It could have waited till _after _the Reapings."

"And risk letting him get away?"

"Better than risking exposure," her father said. "For fuck's sake, Pax – you've got blood on your dress! We're going to get caught because of you two!"

"I can cover it up," Pax said simply. "And either way, nobody's gonna know where it came from."

"But they'll ask."

Pax scoffed. "Ever heard of _lying_?"

Her father fixed her in a cold stare. "That's not the point."

"Then what is?"

"You two," he said, looking at both Pax and her brother, "have to stop being so _reckless._"

"Reckless?" Pax nearly laughed. "I know exactly what I'm doing."

"All I want is for you to be more careful." Underneath all the seriousness, there was a hint of worry in his tone. "If they catch you, it might not just be you who'll pay the price. It'll be all of us."

Pax put a hand to her forehead in a mock salute. "Whatever you say, boss."

Her father let out a long sigh. "Just get yourself cleaned up before you even dare show yourself at the Reapings."

Pax nodded. She pointed at the battered body in front of them. "What do we do with him?"

"Leave him," her father said. "He'll die before anybody finds him."

_You don't know that,_ Pax wanted to say. _And I'm reckless?_

But after some consideration, she realized he was right. Even if the man did survive their beating, who in the right mind would believe a fourteen-year-old girl did it to him?

It helped to be overlooked. Her job wasn't exactly _legal_. It wasn't exactly _safe_. There were quite a few risks that came with being a fourteen-year-old drug smuggler—but that's why she was perfect for the job. Young as she was and scrawny as she appeared, Pax was the very definition of unexpected.

And she _loved_ it.

It was a great understatement to say that Pax was well-acquainted with danger. Considering how much she reveled in the thrill of the fight, it would only suffice to say that to Pax Burgess, danger was nothing but a close, familiar friend.

* * *

**Calia Ventiere, 16, District Nine**

* * *

As gusts of wind billowed against her back, Calia stretched her arms out, letting herself glide through the air, above the ocean. It was a marvel of a sight – birds of all sorts flew around her as puffy white clouds floated beneath. The line between the sea and the sky was so faint that it was almost as if the two were one – a single void of bright, endless blue.

Calia felt at peace.

A seagull – or at least, Calia wanted to believe it was a seagull – sent a single, hard peck to shoulder. Calia ignored it.

"_Calia?_" the seagull called.

Calia closed her eyes. This world was of her control. If she wanted the seagull to disappear, it should have disappeared. Right?

But the seagull remained, incessant in its pursuit to irritate her. "Calia!"

The force of its pecking only continued to intensify. As its rhythmic jabs hastened in pace, Calia felt herself sinking, the weight of the seagull's beak pushing her down to the sea.

She crashed.

Calia's eyes fluttered open, blinking repeatedly. As she did so, her fabricated world began to dissolve. The ocean faded, and in its place, a sea of people formed, trapping her in suffocating congestion. A gray sky replaced her blue abyss, and the nettlesome seagull, Calia had come to realize, was but another girl's hand. It continued to tap ceaselessly at her shoulder.

It pissed her off.

Calia whipped around to face her. "What do you want?"

The girl offered her an apologetic smile. "Calia, is it?"

"_Yes._"

"I just wanted to let you know, the twelve-year-olds' section is over _there." _

Calia narrowed her eyes. "I'm sixteen."

The girl laughed. "Sixteen what? Inches?"

_Sixteen seconds away from punching you in the face. _Calia balled her fists. She glowered at the girl, but the latter only laughed harder.

"I don't even think the twelve-year-old section would take you," the girl said. "You don't even look like you're of Reaping age."

Calia's eyebrows furrowed. "Fine. Make fun of me all you want but at least I'm not… not…" She fumbled with her words, "At least I'm not _stupid!_"

"Right. You're not stupid. So they kicked you out of school for being a genius, then?"

The other kids around her looked amongst themselves, snickering.

Calia gritted her teeth. The girl smirked. As the crowd around her continued to laugh, Calia felt her blood rising inside of her, fury swimming in her veins.

"No," Calia said, her face flushing bright red. "I _chose _to leave. You wanna know why?"

"Because you were too dum—"

"Because I didn't want to be around shallow, soulless, _ugly_ little prisses like _you!_"

With that, Calia stormed off, pushing past the sea of girls that had got in her path.

Despite the grunts, the protests, and the angry glares they'd shot at her, Calia continued to shove her way past them. She didn't care for their anger, she didn't care for their frustration. If they didn't give her their respect, what reason did she have to give hers?

Dim-witted, they called her. Slow. Stupid. Useless, good-for-nothing, brainless, a lost cause, _you'll never make it anywhere in life_. She hated it – all of it—every word, every degrading title, every bullet of a phrase they'd relentlessly shot, every name they had spat at her face.

Yet, deep inside, Calia knew they weren't wrong, but they didn't have to make the truth sound so _ugly._

But she reminded herself she was better than them.

A satisfied smile formed Calia's lips. So blind, they were. Their vision was limited to only what the eyes could see. They didn't look beyond, and would never know what it was like to live in a world of their own making, of their control.

They would never know how it felt to hold the weight of an entire universe with their own hands.

People had always told her to get back to the real world. But what was the real world compared to the world in her head? Could she mold it to her will without lifting a finger? Could she destroy its ugliness with only her thoughts? Could she bring into existence the goodness, the beauty it had so blatantly lacked?

She couldn't.

The real world wasn't enough.

She had a world she had imagined, one that lived and breathed inside of her. Its existence might have been confined to her mind alone, but that didn't matter. A fabricated existence was still a valid existence. It was real enough for her.

Calia didn't like reality, so she dreamt up her own.

Once she had settled in a far corner of the crowd, Calia closed her eyes once more. With her mind, she summoned the sea, summoned the skies, and soon, they emerged, the blue abyss materializing from the darkness.

There, she drifted. The wind carried her away from the congestion of the crowd, into a brighter, freer dream.

When the escort called her name, Calia was too lost to hear it.

* * *

**Mateo Avener, 18, District Ten**

* * *

Mateo didn't like being alone.

Alone, he was left to his thoughts. There was nothing to distract him. Nothing could stop the misery from swallowing him whole.

He kept his head down as he walked past the crowd. He could feel the dread that permeated the air. Another year, another reaping. Another two souls doomed to walk a bitter path.

Part of Mateo envied them. The Reaped were freed from the dreariness of it all. They escaped the rut Panem confined them to, liberated from the dull monotony the system forced onto their lives.

But the other part of him reminded him he was lucky. That part was called common sense.

"Mateo!"

The sound of his name being called out broke Mateo's train of thought. He turned to find Seanna waving at him from a distance, her smile wide and beaming.

When she got to him, instinctively, the corners of his lips turned up to form a warm smile. "You look happy."

She beamed back at him. "What's there to be sad about?"

_The Reaping. The Hunger Games. Possible death. _His mind conjured up a thousand more reasons, but Mateo kept silent. There was no need to make the world shittier for her—it was already perfectly capable of doing that on its own.

It was a good thing smiles were as easy to fake as misery was to feel.

"Yeah," Mateo said. "You're right."

Seanna's grin grew wider, stretching from ear to ear. "Okay, okay…. I'm going to say it." Her voice brimmed with jubilance. "I got the job!"

"Are you serious?"

"Yeah. Doctor Beyer got back to me today—she said I can start next month." She pointed her thumb at herself. "You're looking at District Ten's greatest veterinarian! Erm… or at least…. I _will_ be."

Mateo stood, staring back at her, his expression blank. He didn't know how to react. He did feel happy for her, but there was something else tugging at insides— envy. Green envy, chewing away a hole inside of him.

Seanna had a purpose. She had desires, ambitions and dreams to live for. What did he have?

But, for her sake, Mateo forced himself to smile. "I'm happy for you."

She smiled back. But as the speakers boomed to announce to commencement of the reaping, the look of elation fell from her face. "You gotta go, kid," she said, giving him a gentle nudge on the shoulder. "We've got another death to celebrate. _Yippee._"

"Hey," he said. "Don't be so negative."

Seanna rolled her eyes. Giving him a last farewell wave, she headed off to her own section, and Mateo was once again left to himself.

As he walked past the crowds, he tried to offer smiles to those he had known, and even those he did not– in some hope that perhaps, they would fall for the pretense of happiness. In some hope that perhaps, he himself would.

Because happiness was a lie he desperately wanted to believe in.

Mateo settled for a place in the far corner of the crowd. Once he'd felt confident that nobody was paying attention to him, he let the mask wither away.

There had always been a dissonance between what he had felt inside and what he had displayed for the world to see. The Mateo they saw smiled and laughed and enjoyed life. The Mateo he hid away didn't even know what life _meant._

He sighed. Existing was exhausting. What was the point of it all? All he was was another cog in the system— a piece so replaceable, so expendable, that if it had gone, the world would probably never notice it was missing.

Seanna would achieve her goals, break free from the system, and live a life that meant something. And Mateo would be Mateo, whatever _that_ meant.

He wouldn't be anything. Just another worker, slave to his District, slave to the Capitol. And there would be thousands like him, toiling away aimlessly for survival, never choosing the path they wanted to take for themselves, because _this was Panem_, and in Panem, choice was a luxury only few could afford.

Because this was Panem. They were never really living. They were merely existing.

He'd been so lost in his own thoughts that it blocked out the rest of the world. Everything else became background noise against the loudness of his mind, and even when the escort had called a girl's name, Mateo had been far too gone to be paying attention.

Sometimes he wondered how different the world would be if he had never been born.

Other times, he wondered how much the world would change if it lost him.

"And your male tribute for this year is," the escort called out, "Mateo Avener!"

And other times, he wondered if it would even change at all.

* * *

**Tawni Prior, 17, District Twelve**

* * *

"Tawni Prior."

The minute she had heard her name boom through the speakers, Tawni allowed the faintest of smiles grace her lips. The girls around her shot her puzzled looks, but she paid them no mind.

Perhaps she was happy it happened.

_Perhaps._

The possibilities that entered her mind thrilled her. What could happen? She could become Victor, say goodbye to her parents and live the life of freedom she had always desired. She would get a mansion to herself and – if he wanted to come – Tobias. And there, she'd be away from their demands, their rules, their nagging. The overbearing weight of their presence would be lifted, and Tawni, at last, could be herself.

It would take some endurance. Tawni wasn't blind to that fact. Killing was almost an inevitability, but she did not care. The chance at a better future mattered more to her than the life of any damn louse from the districts. If it was necessary for her survival, she would do it without hesitation. She would manage. She would endure.

Sure, victory was a difficult goal to achieve, but it wasn't an impossibility.

It was a perhaps.

The other possibility was death. Tawni didn't like it as much, but it was definitely enough. She didn't know what it was or where she'd go, but one thing was for certain. She would be free.

The thought of it somehow broke the usual dourness of her disposition. Whatever the outcome was, whether it be life or it be death, it would bring her peace.

The smile fell from her lips. Tawni wasn't accustomed to wearing the expression. Her face muscles hurt.

As they edged away to make a path, the girls surrounding Tawni stared at her, their eyes betraying sympathy. As she walked, Tawni simply held her head high, her expression blank and unreadable. She did not care for their pity; she didn't need it.

A beaming smile cracked on the escort's face as Tawni arrived at the stage. Offering her a microphone, she said, "How are you feeling, Tawni?"

Tawni almost laughed. She could only imagine what any other person would have felt if they were in her situation. Any other person would have thought _angry_ or _devastated_ or _terrified_. But that was the truth, and the truth was not the answer the Capitol wanted.

Any other person would have lied.

But Tawni wasn't like any other person.

_How am I feeling? _

Her lip curled into a lopsided grin. "Fan-fucking-tastic."

Some laughed, some smiled in both amusement and bemusement, others just looked at her in shock, their mouths agape. As she scanned the crowd, she found a familiar face staring back at her, his eyes betraying a devastating mixture of pain and horror and pity. He seemed to be the only one who had felt any grief for her.

_Tobias._

It was only then that Tawni felt a pang of distress. Everyone else didn't matter to her. She didn't care if her bitch of a mother cried over the loss of her trophy child. She didn't care how long her father would mourn. But Tobias— Tobias had nobody else but her.

But she swallowed that pain. She wouldn't let it defeat her. In fact, a realization hit her: it could be her edge. She wasn't unwilling. She didn't care enough about others to spare their lives. And she had herself to fight for. And more importantly—she had Tobias.

She willed herself to smile once more, for Tobias's sake and hers. She would fight. And she would win. And she would come back – and they would live the life they both deserved.

But the name the escort had called hit her with the force of a bullet.

"Tobias Collett!"

* * *

**A/N: Sorry for the long wait**—** as I said, I was on vacation. But I'm here now. I am home. Hello. **

**So here's how the format goes. There are gonna be four chapters with six POV's for character introductions: Reapings/Pre-reapings, Goodbyes, Train Rides, and Chariots. Then, for second POV's: Training Day One, Training Day Two, Gamemaker Sessions, and Interviews. Then, come the games, we'll hit third person omniscient. Sound good?**

**Charts would be nice! Reviews would be great. Feedback of any sort would be very much appreciated. Criticism, so long as it's constructive, not destructive, would be absolutely lovely.**

**See ya next time! :***


	5. Choices

**Chapter Five**

* * *

**Alude Carielle, 18, District Two**

* * *

"Good luck," his father said.

Alude said nothing. A thousand words buzzed inside his mind, but they all remained unsaid, because while Alude wanted recognition, it was not something he was used to. All he could do was show a smile - closed-lipped and awkward - bow his head, and wait for someone else to fill the silence.

But despite it, a feeling of pride welled in his chest. All eyes were on him. Some, like his brother, looked at him with a nod of approval, but others—his mother – looked at him with a face full of worry. But what they'd felt didn't matter to him at the moment. What mattered was that _Alude_ mattered. What mattered was that they _cared._

And the pride only grew when they embraced him goodbye before leaving the room, each one of them—his father, his brother, his sisters. His mother kissed him on the forehead, and with a hint of worry in her eyes, she said, "Stay safe."

To some, it came as a shock that the quiet, awkward boy got selected.

But Alude was different from them.

He didn't volunteer for the stipend. He didn't volunteer because he had to. He volunteered because he wanted to.

He volunteered to _win_.

He had chosen this. It was only fitting that they chose him, too.

"Alude!"

Someone had called his name. Alude's eyes widened upon seeing her, his face breaking into a grin. The girl rushed to him, and Alude caught her in his arms. As Liana lay her head against his chest, Alude's heart skipped a beat.

It was different when he was with Liana. Before he had met her, he was only an awkward boy with a fear of people, unsure of himself, unsure of his abilities. To a degree, he still was, but Liana had given him a feeling of peace, a sense of security that made Alude feel a little bit more complete.

Alude did not want to let go. It was as if he had forgotten the rest of the world. Naught else mattered but the moment, naught else mattered but them. They simply were what they were: body holding body, skin against skin, head on pounding heart.

Liana pulled away. She took his hand, squeezing it gently, her fingers slipping into the spaces between his own. The other reached for his face, touching his cheek, and as her eyes looked into his, Alude's heart skittered against his ribs.

"Promise me you'll come back," she said.

"I'm... I'm not quite sure—"

"No." Her voice was firm. "Swear it. Swear you'll do whatever it takes."

Her hard stare softened Alude's resolve. "Whatever it takes," he said. "I swear it."

Her gaze trailed away from his eyes, her stare falling on his mouth. Alude swallowed. Her hands slipped away from his grasp and rose to hold his head, her fingers sliding between locks of hair. As Liana tiptoed to meet his height, she tilted her head, her nose brushing against his chin, his cheek, until their smiling lips aligned.

Alude leaned in. He closed his eyes. Soft lips pressed against the corners of his mouth.

The rest of the world froze, and in the silence, he could hear his heart and hers, pounding against their chests to the same beat, a single rhythm. Alude, consumed by an overwhelming rush of felicity, would have smiled if he could.

She tasted like bliss.

In that moment, he wanted no more, no less. He wanted _this_ and only _this_.

Liana's lips parted from his. Alude felt a small breath on his skin. He pulled away, but as he rose to reclaim his height, his chin slammed against her nose.

Blood gushed out of it. Liana stumbled, staggering backwards before catching her balance once more.

"Shit."

"_Shit!_"

"Shit..."

"Shit— I'm so sorry, Li, I'm so—"

"It's alright."

"Shit shit _shit_, I'm —I'm sorry—"

"It's fine, I'm—" Liana paused. She took one look at Alude — sweaty, panicking, wide-eyed Alude — and her lips pressed together, leaving her sentence unfinished. She put a hand over her mouth as a grin cut across her face, then, after a series of short, suppressed snorts, Liana broke down laughing.

Alude stared, dumbfounded. His mouth was conflicted. It couldn't decide between saying _I'm sorry_ and saying _what the fuck_, so it said nothing. He simply looked at her.

He ended up smiling. Somehow, even with a bloodied nose and loud, graceless laughter, Liana still managed to look beautiful.

The room fell silent. Her laughter came to an end, but her beaming smile remained etched on her face. Her eyes fell on his.

She said nothing, but Alude heard her words still.

_I love you._

And that was that. The feeling was so simple that it only took eyes to understand, yet so complex that Alude knew no words to explain it.

It needed no words anyway.

But the ugly feeling of reality settled in. He would leave. She could lose him. And even if he did come back, their happiness wasn't a certainty. It was a truth the world tried to keep hidden, a truth all had already known: behind mansions and crooked smiles and their well-feigned sense of pride, no victor truly felt victorious.

But this had been his choice. It would be shameful of him to let himself be defeated by a path he had chosen for himself. And as Alude looked at Liana, he decided to make another choice: he would be _different_.

"Li, I'm going to be better than them," he told her. "Better than the other survivors."

"How?"

"I'm not going to wallow around in misery like they are." A proud smile formed on his face. He took her hand and held it against his chest. "I'm going to be happy."

There was a hint of worry in her face, a glint of wistfulness reflecting on her eyes. "That's not something you can guarantee."

"Of course I can." The longer he looked at her, the wider his grin spread. "Your existence itself guarantees it."

Liana grinned as well.

* * *

**Adrienne Cruso, 18, District Four**

* * *

Adrienne was well-acquainted with insignificance. In such a large family, everybody fought to be heard, and these were fights Adrienne never quite won. Quiet voices like hers never struck out amongst the clamor and chatter the others made, and so Adrienne had to grow accustomed to being dismissed. She was so used to being ignored that by now, she practically expected it. But somehow, it still hurt.

Especially now.

Her entire family was in the room. It was a blur of buzzing voices, a chaotic mess of words. So many people were speaking at the same time that Adrienne could not make sense of anything anybody was saying, so she simply stood there, waiting for some semblance of acknowledgement. But minutes passed, and nobody paid her any mind.

But Adrienne held her head high, as she always did.

When asked why she wanted to train, Adrienne always gave the answer the Academy wanted: to spare the reaped. To save some innocent child from going in unwilling. To protect her own.

But the truth was, she didn't care about any of those things. The real reason was one she had known deep in her heart, a fact that lay in the back of her mind but had never been put into thought, never strung into words. It was a secret she had kept from everyone, even herself.

Maybe she volunteered to matter.

It was only when the Peacekeeper announced that their time was up that her family realized they still needed to say goodbye. As they left, one by one, they gave her their farewell words, some soulless _good luck's_ and generic _do your best's_, and several more unmeant _I believe in you's._ Then the door shut behind them.

Adrienne's eyes widened as her next guest, Paige, came bursting in the room, nearly tackling her as she wrapped her arms around her for a tight hug. A few others followed, namely her friends, Alvin and Beatrice. Behind them, one last person came in before they closed the door once again. _Taylor_. For whatever reason, she didn't look as excited as the others. Her downcast eyes wore a worried expression.

Adrienne willed herself to ignore it.

Alvin was the first to speak. "You sure you can do this?"

"Of course she can," Paige defended. "She didn't get chosen for nothing."

"Not everybody who gets chosen wins."

His words felt like a jab to her chest. Adrienne swallowed, trying to look nonchalant. "Thanks, Alvin," she said mockingly. "That's _really_ encouraging."

"This is Adrienne fucking Cruso," Paige said. "She can do anything."

"Not to mention she got one of the highest physical aptitude scores in the history of _ever_," Beatrice chimed in.

"Yeah! And who else can throw a spear like she can?"

Adrienne lightened up a bit. A small smile graced her features.

Maybe her family didn't care, but her friends did. They were rooting for her. They _believed _in her. And that was almost enough to make her believe in herself, too.

_Almost._

Everybody smiled, giving Adrienne their congratulations and good luck wishes. Paige embraced her several more times, and Beatrice joined in as well. Even Alvin offered a few words of advice. Everybody had given her some last parting messages—except, Adrienne had realized, _Taylor_.

She swept her gaze, looking over at her friend. There was a certain anxiety in her expression—a glint of worry in her eyes. For some reason, it gnawed at Adrienne's insides, but she held it in and stared back with a stoic face.

Adrienne glared at her. "You have something to say?"

Taylor's eyes widened. She gulped, then flashed a nervous, blatantly forced smile. "I was just thinking about… what Alvin said."

"What?"

"Nevermind. Just… good luck. Come back, alright?"

Adrienne raised an eyebrow. "Do you doubt me?"

"No, it's not that, it's, it's just…" her eyes darted to the floor, avoiding Adrienne's gaze. "Forget it. It's not important."

"Say it."

Taylor looked as if she were about to shrink. She took a breath, then looked at Adrienne straight in the eyes. "Adrienne, you're good. Better than anyone that I have ever seen. But…. Jaks was good, and he didn't make it. Irina didn't make it. Myrene didn't make it."

"Myrene was an idiot," Adrienne said. "And I'm not Myrene."

"I'm just scared for you."

"Scared for me? That's insulting. So you do _doubt _me."

"No, I—"

"Save it."

Taylor tensed up. She opened her mouth, as if about to speak, but said nothing. The rest her friends remained silent, staring at the two of them. Adrienne continued to hold her head up, leering, maintaining an air of hostility.

But inside, she fear gripped her.

A peacekeeper soon came in to announce that it was time to go. Adrienne watch as one by one, they left, smiling or saying one last farewell, and with every goodbye, somehow, she grew a little bit more fearful.

There was a voice in her head that told Adrienne that Alvin was right to doubt her. That Taylor was right to feel worried. That she was right to feel afraid.

Because Adrienne wasn't good enough.

Taylor and Alvin doubted Adrienne because she was inadequate. She was strong, but not the strongest. She was great, but not the greatest. She was good, but not good _enough._

There would be people out there who were better than her, who would swat her away like a fly breaking a sweat. Who was to say death wasn't actually inevitable? Who was to say she wasn't doomed to fail?

The girl everyone saw was self-assured. Strong. Capable. But that girl wasn't real. She simply hid behind piercing eyes and unsmiling lips, and believed that if she held her head high, nobody would ever see how low she truly felt within.

Alvin was right. Not all who had gotten chosen won. What made her any different? Was she better? Was she stronger? Who was to say she wasn't going to end up just like them?

Tears threatened to break free, but Adrienne held them back.

The world was not allowed to see her weak.

* * *

**Jesper Sargent, 18, District Six**

* * *

When the escort called his name, the first thought that entered Jesper Sargent's mind was: _fuck._

It wasn't simply a single fuck. It was, rather, a continuous string of fucks, occasionally followed by expletives of equally common usage, no's, and other colloquial derivatives of fuck. Paraphrased, Jesper's thought process went as follows: _Fuck fuck fuck no fucking shit no no fuck crap shitting fuck._

And the string played in the back of his mind as the Peacekeepers escorted him to the Justice Building— a concerto of curses; fucks in fortissimo. Jesper would have sworn aloud, but the little girl he'd been reaped with (Pax, he remembered her name was) was being led to the private rooms alongside him. He didn't want to shatter her innocence.

The girl cast him a sideways glance, and that glance turned into a look, and that look turned into a willful stare. Her eyes betrayed curiosity, interest. "Hey," she said. "You look familiar."

Jesper's eyes widened. The girl looked familiar, too. No, he was certain he had met her at least once. He was sure he had seen her somewhere, back in the alleyways or the underground, in days past when he had lived roaming the streets after running away from home and—

_No._

That was a life he'd left behind.

The girl was _not _familiar. He had never met her, not once. He had not known her nor seen her to this day. She was nothing to him, and despite what she had said, he was nothing to her, too. The past was the past. He'd forgotten it; it no longer existed.

Jesper believed that if you denied a fact enough times, it would no longer be the truth. If it worked for the Capitol and its history books, it would work for him.

But he only wished it worked for the present as well as it did with the past. It was difficult to deny that he'd been reaped when he'd just been led inside the Justice Building, sent to say his last farewells to the people he loved. It was difficult to convince himself that he wasn't doomed, that he wasn't going to die, that everything would be alright, when the loudest thing in the room was the pounding of his heart.

He needed a distraction. He needed mo—

_No._

That was a life he had left behind.

The door swung open, and in came his father, wearing his usual stern expression. His brother, Kit, refused to look at him, his gaze falling on everything and anything that wasn't his brother. His mother at least looked sorry for him, her eyes red, puffy, and wet with tears.

Jesper looked over at his father. The man's eyes betrayed disappointment, distaste. Jesper felt his guts twist in revulsion, anger surging through his nerves. _I'm being sent off to my death, and you still choose to feel angry with me?_

With hatred burning within him, Jesper did only what was logical.

He smiled.

"I'm glad you came," he said.

His father did not reply.

Jesper took a breath. "I don't know if I'm going to be able to say this," he said, looking his father straight in the eye, "and I'm sorry I didn't say enough when I had the chance, but—" Jesper paused. It was getting harder and harder to hold his gaze. "Thank you. For taking me in even after… you know."

His father's eyes held no pity. "You owe us more than thanks. Especially after what you did."

_Well, fuck you too. _

The hatred inside of him only continued to grow, but Jesper swallowed it. Still, he bowed his head in shame, because in that moment he couldn't – not for the life of him – come up with anything to say that his father would not shoot down. Apologies would not be acknowledged, and retorts would be met with indignant distaste.

Saying nothing was the safest route. Jesper did not want to make his father angry, because despite how much he hated him, he still wanted his father to love him.

The minutes were met with more silence, and only when the Peacekeepers announced that their time was almost over did Jesper's father speak once more.

"Good luck," the man said, and Jesper smiled, a genuine smile this time, because any semblance of affection was rare nowadays, and at that moment, _good luck_ seemed sufficient enough of a substitute for _I love you._

As they left the room one by one, Jesper's rage melted away. He no longer felt angry. But the dissolution of fury left some residue of grief— a stain of dread and sadness that was too large for him to ignore.

Reality was getting harder and harder to avoid.

The truth hurt. Pretending the past did not happen would not erase its existence. His family would not forget. His father would not forgive him. They would no longer ever see him as himself, only what he used to be. And no matter how hard he tried, he would never become the son his father wanted.

And now, it was too late to try. A death match was waiting for him. He would die unforgiven, existing only as a memory stained with past mistakes.

_Unless._

Unless he _didn't._

Jesper was a number of things, among them being: an ex-prodigal son, a returned runaway, a disappointment, a delinquent, a disgrace, a not-so-reformed veteran of substance addiction, and a not-quite-retired master of fucking shit up.

But these were things he would never claim to be, because above all else, Jesper Sargent was a skilled pretender, a relentless denier of past identity who, for as long as he could, would craft a new self—all in some desperate hope that nobody would remember the old one had ever existed.

Because the old self came from an old life. And that was a life Jesper had willed himself to forget, a life he had left behind.

And now, it was time to move forward.

* * *

**Elian Thayne, 17, District Seven**

* * *

It took a while for his mother to let go of him. It was alright, Elian didn't want to let go of her, either. Most of their time was spent in silence, with his mother holding him tightly in her arms, weeping quietly into his shirt. His father stared at them both, shedding tears as well.

Finally, Elian's mother pulled away. With red, puffy eyes, she looked at him, saying, "Come back. Do what you can to come back."

Elian willed his lips to form a reassuring smile. "I will." He turned to his father. "Is Vance coming?"

"He's outside," the man said. "He said he wanted to speak with you alone."

"Why?"

"He didn't say. Maybe he wanted more time."

Elian agreed. They did need more time. There were so many things he still wished to say to his parents, so many words that could no longer ever be said, because the minutes they were provided with had already been expended.

A peacekeeper entered the room. "Time to go."

His mother let out another loud sob, and in turn, Elian's father put an arm around her shoulder, guiding her to the door as the woman buried her face into her hands. As they left, his father looked at Elian, his lips forming silent words.

_Do your best,_ he said.

Elian nodded.

Vance came into the room, his face wet with tears. The minute he stepped in, Elian wrapped his arms around him, perhaps to provide comfort to him, perhaps to provide comfort to _himself. _The smallest of smiles graced his face. Somehow, his older brother's presence was reassuring.

Vance pulled away. "You know, I was never that scared of the Reapings," he said, sullen, yet firm. "When I was, I was scared for myself. I never expected this. I never expected it to be _you._"

"Neither did I," Elian said.

Vance swallowed, wiping a tear off his cheek. "Do what you can to make it out, okay?"

"I will," Elian said. "But know this: I'm not going to kill."

"What?"

"I'm not going to kill."

Vance's voice shook a little. "That's—that's your decision, but… I think you're going to have to, eventually. Forget your idealism. The Capitol's not gonna root for someone who won't give them a show."

"I don't care. I'm not going to take somebody else's life. It's wrong."

"Not even to save your skin?"

"No. Never."

Vance let out a dersive laugh. "Ha-ha, I know what this is," he said. "This is a hero complex. You better lose it fast, because that shit's not going to help you."

"Hero complex?"

"You don't want to kill because you think it'll make you a better person. Well, guess what? It isn't fucking worth it. You're just going to end up dead."

"You think I'm doing this for _me?" _Elian snapped. "You think I'm doing this to feel better about myself? I'm just out to do what's right."

"There _is_ no right!"

"You're wrong."

"For fuck's sake, Elian!" Vance nearly screamed. "Right or wrong, none of it matters! This is the Hunger Games. It's fucking evil, but it's not your fault— it's _theirs. _They dragged you into their game! You don't have a choice!"

"But we _do_ have a choice," Elian said firmly. "And I've made mine."

"What? _Death?"_

"I'm not going to bend to their will. I'm not going to let them abandon what I believe in."

"What if your life depends on it?

Elian narrowed his eyes. "I'd rather die than take another life."

"You're being selfish!"

"How is this selfish?"

"Think about Mom and Dad. Think about your friends. Think about _me,_" Vance's voice grew louder and louder with every word. "You're just gonna leave us behind? We need you, Elian!"

"The other kids have families too."

"They don't matter!"

"I've made up my mind. And I'm not changing it."

"Stop being so fucking stubborn! Do you have any idea how difficult this is for me?"

Elian's eyes sparkled with hostility. "I'm going to die," he said. "And you complain it's going to be difficult for _you."_

Vance simply looked at him, his eyes wide. His mouth hung open, almost as if about to speak, but no words escaped his lips.

He let out a heavy breath before breaking into tears.

Elian stared at him. He put a hand on his shoulder in some measly attempt to offer comfort, but it Vance only continued to weep. Elian pulled him closer, letting his brother bury his head on his shoulder.

They remained like this for a while, silent, save for the sound of weeping, the sound of breathing. Elian searched his minds for words to reassure his brother, but he found none. The future wasn't certain, and there was nothing he could say to make Vance believe he would be alright, because in the older boy's eyes, Elian had already ruined all his chances. The damage had already been done.

Finally, Vance pulled away. He took a breath, then swallowed. "I just don't want to lose you."

Elian didn't say he wouldn't fight. He didn't say he wouldn't try. He didn't say he wouldn't do whatever he could to come back without having to kill, and what Vance didn't realize was that Elian _wanted _to live. He didn't want to leave him or his mother or his father or his friends. He didn't _want _to die.

But it was a choice between life and death. A choice between right and wrong. And if death was what was right, then so be it.

"I'll do my best, then."

* * *

**Delaney Lauris, 17, District Eleven**

* * *

Delaney clenched her fists. She wiped a tear off of her cheek, swallowing. Self-absorbed as she was, Delaney had made it a habit to carry herself in a manner that made others think: I would fuck her but I would _not_ want to _fuck with_ her.

Puffy eyes did not go well with that look.

_You're not dead yet, dipshit, _she told herself. _Stop crying. _

But the tears only continued to flow as fear gripped her, the looming dread leaving a heavy weight on her chest. Her heart was a drum pounding against her ribs, a fearful cacophony accompanied by sharp breaths, a hasty, uneven rhythm.

_Delaney Lauris_, the escort had called. The moment remained vivid in her mind.

_Delaney Lauris._

A quiet laugh escaped her lips. Somehow, it was funny. Of all people that could have been chosen, it was _her._ There were thousands of other girls. Some had taken more tesserae than she did. Some had more slips than she did. The chances of her name getting selected were so statistically improbable that Delaney dismissed any possibility of it becoming a reality. But that was her biggest mistake: believing _improbable _was synonymous to _impossible._

And now, here she was. _What rotten fucking luck. _

The door creaked open. At the sound of it, Delaney straightened her posture, holding her head high. She crossed her arms.

It was her mother.

Delaney tensed up, anger surging within. Her mother stretched her arms out, nearly pulling Delaney to an embrace, but Delaney stepped backward, evading her grasp.

Delaney glared in hostility._ "Don't."_

"But Delaney—"

"I don't need you."

Her mother's eyes widened for a split second. They fell back on Delaney's gaze, betraying worry, betraying grief.

"But _I_ need you."

Delaney raised an eyebrow. "So what?"

"Please, Delaney." Her voice trembled. "This might be the last time we're ever going to see each other."

"How nice. My own _mother_ doesn't believe in me."

"No, I do, but—"

"You don't have to lie to me," Delaney said. "Then again, you don't seem capable of doing anything else."

Her mother fell silent, eyes widening in shock. As the woman's face contorted into an angry expression, a satisfied smirked formed on Delaney's lips.

"Yeah, that's right," Delaney spat. "I know the shit you do behind Dad's back. I know that you've been lying to us all these years. Don't try to tell me otherwise. I know the fucking truth."

The woman narrowed her eyes. "Language, Delaney."

"Language? After all the shit you've done, you're fucking scolding me for _language?"_

"Say that word again and I'll—"

Delaney beamed. "Sure, Mother! I'll say it again!" Her tone grew hostile, her leer, dangerous. "_Fuck you._"

Her mother simply looked at her, her mouth agape.

"You know," Delaney said, "I don't understand why you're so opposed to the word _fuck_ when the action itself is at very core of your daily routine. Tell me, Mother: How many men have you screwed behind Dad's back after all these years? Nevermind—don't answer that. It would probably take you more than a century to count them all."

Delaney caught a breath. Somehow, lashing out gave her a sense of satisfaction, but there were still left small embers of anger she wished to set free. Her mother seemed to shrink, her eyes darting away from Delaney's gaze as the girl fixed her into a glare, and for what seemed to be an eternity, the room remained silent.

Her mother met her eyes once more. "I'm sorry."

Delaney grit her teeth. "You still expect me to believe that?"

Delaney didn't believe in apologies. More importantly, she didn't believe in her mother. Nobody was ever truly sorry; they only sought to rid themselves of the uneasiness, the heavy weight of guilt. And her mother wasn't sorry. Delaney could see right through that. All the woman wanted was to be free of her daughter's hatred, so when Delaney passed, she could still retain her ability to live with herself.

Nobody wanted to feel indebted to the dead.

"Delaney," the woman said. "Please."

"Just leave me alone."

The woman bit her lip. She held her gaze for a moment, but soon her eyes fell with a look of defeat. She turned away, dragging herself out the door.

And as she left, another entered.

Delaney swallowed. As soon as he came in, she hung her head low and let her gaze fall to the floor, blank and unfocused.

The man's voice was full of worry. "What happened, Delaney? What did you do to your mother?"

Delaney said nothing.

She no longer knew what to think, or what to feel. Her mother was gone, and there was no longer any point in wallowing on her pain or her hatred or her grief. It was senseless to keep thinking about a person that no longer mattered, so all thoughts of the woman were pushed aside. But in the absence of anger, Delaney once more found fear.

"Delaney," her father repeated, softer this time. "What happened?"

Delaney didn't stop to think. She ran to him, wrapped her arms around him, and buried her face into his chest. Soon, the tears came leaking through.

She said nothing, and neither did he.

Thoughts swam through her mind. Maybe she deserved this. Maybe it was better that _she _got selected, and not some kid who loved and was loved back. Who would remember her, anyway? Her father would move on. Her mother never cared to begin with. All her life she had lived for nobody else but herself. Who needed her?

The weight of her thoughts left her chest aching, grief welling inside of her. Maybe, she thought, the world would be a better place with her gone.

Maybe the world would forget her.

_You can't be sure of that,_ she told herself. But a lump formed in her throat as fear crept up and gripped her.

It was only a possibility. But in that moment, _possible _seemed almost synonymous to _inevitable._

In her father's arms, Delaney allowed herself to break.

* * *

**Tobias Collett, 16, District Twelve**

* * *

Before she passed, Tobias's grandmother had left words that shaped the way he thought for the rest of his life: "It takes a great deal of strength to die for others, but much more so to _live_ for them."

The child Tobias was could not fully comprehend the weight of her words. But he did not forget them, either.

"The world remembers the martyrs," she had said. "But they aren't the only heroes that matter."

"Which are better?" he asked.

"That, I can't say." She smiled a little bit, letting out a laugh of a breath. "All I know is that choosing to live for others makes you more useful for a much longer time."

For most of his life, Tobias ignored the first part. He didn't live in a world of war like his grandmother did. The very thought of dying for anybody was but a distant unreality. Instead, he focused on the latter half— choosing to live his life not for himself, but for the rest of the world. It was a decision he had always prided himself for.

It was difficult. The world looked at kindness and called it _weakness._ The selfish exploited the selfless, taking what was given and never giving back, dragging others down because they did not know how to bring themselves up.

Years of torment taught him this. Kindness was something he had relentlessly given, but rarely was it ever something he received. But still, Tobias wore a smile through it all, because while goodness wasn't something the world deserved, it was something the world _needed_, and Tobias was only happy to give what the world had lacked. So he suffered in silence. Bear and endure, he would always tell himself. Bear and endure.

His grandmother was right. Dying required bravery, but living required suffering, and while selflessness didn't always have to go hand in hand with stupidity, it did require strength.

Especially now.

His brother stood in front of him, his eyes fixed on the floor. Others might have believed that looking at one's twin was like looking at a mirror, but when Tobias looked at Tristan, he was reminded nothing of himself.

Instead, he was reminded of pain, words like swords and names like knives, betrayal like a bullet sinking in. He was reminded of anger never unleashed, of hatred kept hidden.

Tobias's mother put a hand on Tristan's shoulder. "Tobias," she said. "Your brother has something to say to you."

Tristan's eyes met his. Their gazes locked for a fleeting moment, but almost immediately, Tristan threw his arms around Tobias and held him tightly, burying his face into his brother's shoulder.

Tobias smiled a little. It had been quite a long time since they last embraced. But a lump formed in his throat as the facts hit him: this might as well have been the last time they ever would.

Tristan pulled away. Soft words broke the silence. "I'm sorry."

Tobias said nothing. His head said _forgive_. His heart said _love_. But a part of him – a small fraction of heart that he denied existed – said: _don't._

_Why waste time caring about a boy that never cared about you?_

Tristan spoke, his voice soft, quivering slightly. "Are you still angry with me?"

Tobias's head said: _you shouldn't be. _

And his heart said: _but you are._

And the small, suppressed part of his heart, the part that burned with anger, said: _he deserves your anger._

"Tobias?" Tristan quaked. "Are you…. Are you still angry with me?"

Tobias took a breath. He looked at his brother in the eyes, willing his lips to form a warm smile.

"I never was."

Tristan stared back. His lips moved to form words but no sound came out. His wide eyes broke into tears.

Tobias wrapped his arms around his brother. Maybe in time, someday, the hatred would go away. Maybe the memories of all those years of torment would dissipate. Maybe he'd forget the pain Tristan had caused. Maybe the anger would fade.

Maybe, if he waited long enough, he would be able to say "I forgive you," without having to lie.

His mother tapped his shoulder. "Tobias," she said.

Tobias felt relieved. He no longer wanted to look at Tristan, no longer wanted to think about his anger, no longer wanted to force himself to forgive when he did not want to.

He pulled away. His gaze fell away from his brother, meeting his mother's worried eyes.

Her voice shook as she spoke. "Do what you can to come home, okay?"

"What if I have to kill?"

His mother swallowed. "Then do it. You're just a piece in their game, anyway. It's the Capitol's fault, not yours," she said. "I know we taught you to think of others before yourself. But this time, it's different. If you want to survive, you have to put yourself first."

"What about Tawni?"

"What's she to you?"

"She's my friend."

"Is that all?"

"That's all there is to it."

His mother said nothing.

Friend or not—it didn't matter. Tawni was a person. Everybody, no matter who they were or what they did, deserved to live – and Tobias had no right to take that away from them.

He thought of the people he would leave behind. His mother. His father. Tristan.

Tawni had a mother who only cared about showing her child off like a trophy, and a father that didn't care much at all. She mattered to nobody else but Tobias, and likewise, nobody else mattered to her but him. But still, he could not see any reason why she deserved to live less than he did. It was unfair to presume that a person's worth was determined by how many people loved them.

People were people, and they were all worth the same.

Tobias wanted to live. But for him to keep his life, Tawni would have to lose hers. Fighting for her sake was a certainty. But dying for her sake was another question.

"Just do what you think is right," his mother said.

But what _was_ right? Was it better to die and leave the people he loved behind, or was it better to live and leave twenty-three other families grieving? Did doing what he believed was good still matter? Did good still _exist?_

_The world remembers the martyrs. But they aren't the only heroes that matter._

Tobias did not want to die. But if twenty-three other kids had to lose their lives for him to survive, he wasn't quite sure if he would be able to live with himself.

* * *

**A/N: (/^w^)/ \\('u'\\) ~('w')~**


	6. Variables

**Chapter Six**

* * *

**Owen Brassard, 18, District One**

* * *

"What do you think of that guy?" Westyn asked him.

The recap of the Reapings was currently on District Eight. Owen had barely been paying the program any attention, but as he turned to look at the screen, something about the boy's appearance caught his eye.

Owen smiled at the sight. "I think he's got a really nice facial structure."

Westyn rolled her eyes. With an exasperated, _what-am-I-to-do-with-you_ sigh, she turned her head back to the screen. "Well I think he's going on our hit list."

"_Our_ hit list?" Owen's eyebrows creased. "Westyn, that boy's face is _art_. I don't destroy art. That's a crime."

She snorted. "Oh, and murder isn't?"

Truthfully, he had never thought about that. Death had never felt real. The Academy had always taught them to distance themselves from the weight of it all, to ignore the means and focus on the end result. This mentality had been engraved in his mind for so long that he had forgotten that most other people thought differently. Now that he thought about it... what if they were right? What if killing was... _wrong_?

_Bah_. It didn't matter. Thinking took too much effort. And caring about all this philosophical morality mumbo jumbo was just a waste of energy.

He turned to Westyn. "Damn, why do you always feel the need to make me feel like an idiot?"

"Because you _are_ an idiot."

Owen sighed. Usually, it was easy for him to ignore unkindness. Sometimes people were just angry. Sometimes, they were just moody. Some were blunt and too narrow-minded understand when they were being hurtful, but this didn't mean they meant ill. Owen _knew_ people— he knew how they worked, he knew how they thought and how they felt and how that made them act. And with empathy came understanding. It was hard to hate others when he could so easily feel for them.

But he could not bring himself to feel for Westyn. Westyn was just a dick.

He let it slide, though. Maybe she wasn't all bad. Maybe, somewhere behind that wall of rudeness and sarcasm and condescension, Westyn Arevalo had a heart.

"He isn't even _that_ hot, you desperate wuss."

Maybe not.

The room fell silent when their mentors came into the room. The older one, Livia, carried herself with a hostile yet dignified grace, while Arran—District One's most recent victor— looked quite the opposite. There was a slump to his posture, a hesitance to his walk, and when his eyes were not staring at the ground, they glanced around the room with worry, as if to see if he were being observed.

Livia's piercing gaze fell on Owen. "Brassard."

Owen stood up. "Yes?"

"You're with me." She turned to Westyn. "Arevalo, you stay here. Arran will be your mentor."

_Sweet_, Owen thought. _I got the hot one_.

Westyn let out a laugh. "You're joking, right?" she pointed at Arran. "_Him? _Are you serious?"

Livia raised an eyebrow. "Is there a problem?"

"Yeah." Westyn folded her arms. "I don't like the smell of piss. I would very much prefer being taught by someone who can interact with other human beings without wetting themselves."

From the corner of his eye, Owen could see Arran shrinking, hanging his head low in shame. Livia, on the other hand, seethed with restrained anger.

Her eyes flickered dangerously. "Arran is your mentor," she said, "and you will treat him with _respect_."

A sudden fear gripped Owen. If he didn't do something now, the situation might blow up to something worse. But doing things took effort. Doing things took _energy. _And he wasn't sure if he had any left to spare.

Owen sighed. He raised his hand. "I can take him."

"Nonsense," Livia said. "You deserve someone better."

He shook his head. "No, it's fine—"

"Well, look who's a hypocrite," Westyn sneered, shooting up from her seat. "You call _me_ disrespectful and then say Arran isn't good enough for Owen?"

"Hey now—"

"_Bitch." _With a hostile glare, she edged closer to Livia. "It's obvious you're dumping only me on Arran because you're just too much of a pussy to face me yourself."

Owen grabbed her arm. "_Westyn_."

Westyn smacked his hand off. "What?" she snapped. "Are you afraid? Can't take a challenge?"

"Westyn I think you need to—"

Livia grit her teeth. "You know what?" she said, glowering at Westyn. "Fine. Arran, you take the boy. I'll deal with the bitch."

Westyn smirked. "Now, that's more like it."

"Brassard," Livia said, pointing at the door. "_Out_."

Owen let out a long sigh.

Well, at least that issue settled itself.

Arran led him out the room. Even without looking at his face, Owen could easily sense the other boy's anxiety. Though Owen did not truly know what Arran was so afraid of, he felt the same fear rushing through. But that was the way it had always been. He'd felt what others felt, even when he did not understand _why._

Sometimes, Owen wondered whether he had his own emotions, or if he simply mirrored everybody else's.

"First time mentoring, huh?" Owen nudged him with an elbow. "Nervous?"

Arran bit his lip. "A little."

"Don't worry." Owen placed a comforting hand on his mentor's shoulder. "I'm not like Westyn. I'm nothing to be afraid of."

The victor's eyes darted away. "Thanks."

The minutes spent walking were spent as well without speech. Owen did not like the quiet, but he could sense that the other boy needed his space, and passively obliged to this unspoken request for silence. Soon, they reached a new compartment. Arran slid into his seat first, and Owen followed.

Owen rested his hands on the table leaned forward. "So is there anything I should know?" he asked. "I mean I've been training for about seven years— is there still anything left for you to teach?"

"There's nothing much, really," Arran said. "Just remember what you learned—it's all there."

"Oh." Owen grinned at him. "Well, that just makes your job a whole lot easier, doesn't it?"

A small smile graced his features, but Owen could easily tell it was devoid of joy. Real smiles didn't take any effort. Arran looked like he was struggling. There was no sincerity on his face, only a concealing twitch of a muscle, a well-practiced mask of self-preserving politeness.

It wasn't difficult for Owen to see past it. Unlike others, Arran's mask wasn't a veil for malice. It was a veil for vulnerability.

The smile faltered. His eyes fell downcast as he blinked, as if struggling to meet Owen's gaze. "There is one thing."

"What is it?" Owen asked.

He took a breath before speaking. "Don't make friends."

Owen pondered over this. He had never been good at detaching. "Why? Because they'll stab you in the back?"

"No," Arran said. He didn't meet his eyes. "Because grief hurts."

* * *

**Chandra Kiel, 16, District Three**

* * *

"She's not that pretty."

Varia furrowed her eyebrows. "Does your eye condition come with any side effects?"

"Not that I know of," Chandra said. "Why?"

"Because you're clearly _blind_."

Chandra had hit it off with his district partner pretty fast. They were both friendly enough to open up to each other easily, and Varia possessed a carefree charm that easily lightened the mood of their situation. As they talked, they had come to find that they had plenty in common — hobbies, interests, beliefs, humor. Mostly recently, they discovered they shared a similar taste in boys("That kid from Two has one hell of a jawline." "I know, right?").

Their taste in girls, however, was another story.

He simply smiled at her. "I'm entitled to my opinion, Varia."

"And I'm entitled to tell you your opinion's _bullshit_."

On the screen before them, a Capitolite program played. It seemed to be a combination of the Reapings with an added commentary on the tributes. Currently the announcers were having a discussion on District Four, with images of the two tributes being projected behind them.

Chandra squinted at the red-haired girl's picture, trying to make sense of what Varia saw in her. "But she looks so... angry. I've dated girls that grouchy before. _Not_ fun."

Varia shrugged. "Maybe she just has a resting bitch face. She could be nice underneath it all. You never know."

"These people volunteered to kill us," Chandra said. "I don't see how any of them could possibly be _nice. _For all you know, she's going to be the one to kill you."

There was silence.

A lump formed in Chandra's throat. _I shouldn't have said that. _This conversation was supposed to be a distraction. They were trying to _forget_. So far, they had been good at distancing themselves from the reality of their situation, but now, he'd just given her a painful reminder of the fate that lay ahead of them.

Varia scoffed. "Please. If the last sight I'd ever see in my life was _that _face, I'd die happy."

But there was something in her voice that said otherwise. Her words were light, but her tone quivered slightly. The slight quake in her speech made it obvious that her flippancy was feigned, that she was making an effort to pretend not to care. And as Chandra looked at her, he found fear reflecting in her eyes. It mirrored his own.

Anxiety welled in Chandra's chest. They could avoid the truth as much as they liked, but that would not stop it from happening. Pretending wouldn't help their situation. Now, the best thing to do was face the truth.

_Your plan. Tell her about your plan._

Chandra swallowed, trying to set his nervousness aside. He needed her faith. Insecurity didn't sell. Confidence did. And the best way to get others to believe in you was to pretend to believe in yourself.

"Hey Variable."

"Yes, Chandelier?"

Chandra winced. _Wait. Stay focused. _He willed himself to smile. "Do you wanna be in an alliance with me?"

"Sure thing," Varia said, but she looked disinterested. Her eyes were focused on the tribute commentary playing in front of them.

"I was thinking of inviting a few more people to join in too, I mean—"

"What about him?" Varia pointed at the screen.

An Avox began serving their meals as the Chandra let his eyes fall on the screen. Somehow, the program had skipped over to District Eight. Chandra grabbed a glass, sparing the girl a quick glance before setting his gaze upon the boy's image. Dark hair, intense eyes. A good facial structure. He looked passably attractive enough for Chandra to doubtlessly take him into consideration, and thankfully, competent-looking enough to provide him a reason founded on rationality.

"Yeah, I guess he'll work. He looks pretty tough." Chandra took a sip of water as he looked at Varia, waiting for what she had to say.

Her eyes remained fixed on the boy's picture. "He looks pretty _pretty_," she said. "Grant Bentley? More like Grant _Bend-me-over_."

Chandra spit out his drink.

A light laugh escaped Varia's lips. "Yeah. You're definitely blind."

"No, it's not that, it's just—" Chandra swallowed, trying his best to speak in a nonchalant tone. "I'd rather not use attractiveness as a basis for choosing allies."

_Liar. _

"His muscles make a good basis," Varia pointed out.

_They really do._ Chandra bit his lip to hold back the thought. "Alright," he said with fake reluctance. "Fine."

Her face cracked into a smile. "So he's in, then?"

"I guess so." Chandra shrugged. "I mean, if he agrees to it. But we can't settle for just him. I want to think bigger."

"What do you mean?"

"I want our alliance to be as big as the Careers."

His face cracked into a beaming grin as he looked at her, awaiting her reaction. _That's a great idea, _Chandra half-expected her to say.

"That's an awful idea," she said.

"What? Why?"

Varia's eyes locked on his, looking more serious than Chandra had ever seen her. "Two people's enough," she said, matter-of-factly. "Three people's a bit better. Four people's alright, but _six_? Chandra, that's too big. We don't need that many people."

Her disapproval stung. "Come on! Think about it. More allies, more protection. More people to watch our backs."

"More like stab us in the back."

"You don't know that!"

"That's the point. We don't." Varia folded her arms. "So how are you so sure we can trust them? How can I be sure I can trust _you_?"

"You've gotten to know me."

"For a _day_," Varia said. "And it's not just you. It's the game. Everybody's gonna wanna win, and we're standing in their way. Who's to say they're not gonna turn on us when they realize that?"

Waves of self-loathing rushed over him as Varia continued to shoot his ideas down, but Chandra tried as hard as he could to cling on to the pretense of confidence. "But we're all just kids," he said. "Nobody's gonna be able to stomach the idea of this too easily."

"That's what _you_ think."

The way she spat out the word _you _felt like a bullet to the chest. She spat out _you _like it was poison. Like being _you_ was something to look down upon.

Like _you _meant something so low and so awful that it was laughable to even take it into consideration.

She spat out _you _as if being _you _was degrading.

_You _didn't even mean _not good enough. _

_You _meant _not good at all._

Maybe he was overanalyzing. Maybe it was only his own insecurities making him believe she thought of him so lowly. But still, it hurt that she didn't believe in him.

Chandra had never had faith in himself, so instead, he relied on other people to put their faith in him. But now, he had neither. All he had was a feigned sense of self-confidence, cowardice, and insecurities that ate away more and more of him by the minute.

At least he could still pretend. "Come on. Give it a chance."

Varia frowned. "Fine," she said. "But if you end up getting stabbed in the back, don't say I didn't warn you."

* * *

**Icarus Valera, 18, District Four**

* * *

"So you're the famous Icarus," Pallas, one of their mentors, said.

The boy smiled. "Ike, actually."

"Heard you got into a bad accident. What happened?"

Icarus winced. That incident was the last thing he wanted to talk about. More than anything, Icarus did not want to look back at his past, so with a shrug and some feigned nonchalance, he said, "I flew too close to the sun, I guess. Wax wings don't really do well in the heat and they melted and all, so then I fell to the sea and nearly drowned and kind of almost died and stuff. My dad cried about it for days. It was awful, but I'm good now. I got this wicked tan too, see?"

Pallas cocked an eyebrow, looking unamused.

"That was a joke, sir," Icarus said nervously. "I was kidding. Get it—Icarus, the accident, the myth... you know?"

His mentor groaned. "Yes, Icarus. I get it."

Icarus forced himself to laugh. "Oh, alright, good— at least I don't have to feel embarrassed for myself now."

Pallas palmed his forehead in frustration. "And your ankle?"

Icarus let out a weary sigh. "It's as broken as my soul, sir."

Pallas narrowed his eyes.

Icarus swallowed. "That was also a joke, sir. You don't have to worry, my ankle's fine now." He added, "And so is my soul… I think."

"Just sit the fuck down, kid."

"Yessir."

Icarus darted off and made his way to the seat next to his district partner—Adrienne, he remembered her name was. There was an unapproachable quality to the girl. With the way she looked at everyone with a piercing glare and held her head as if the world were beneath her, she radiated hostility.

Nevertheless, Icarus offered her a beaming smile. "Hey," he said, holding his hand out for her to shake, "I guess we kind of already met but for formality's sake, you know, I'll introduce myself again. Hi, I'm Ike."

Adrienne looked disinterested. "I know."

His hand hung in the air, and it took a while for him to realize she wouldn't shake it. "What can I call you? Addy? Rienne? A?" Nervousness racked his chest as Adrienne continued to ignore him. "...Baby? Gorgeous? Beautiful?"

Adrienne shot him a glare. "If you want your bones intact, quit speaking."

Icarus threw his hands up in mock surrender. "Sorry," he said anxiously. He bit his lip. "Just to clarify, I wasn't flirting with you. I was just trying to break the ice."

She raised a fist. "Keep trying and I'll break your fa-"

"Attention, kids," a voice boomed.

They turned to find Pallas standing in front of them, his arms folded, his expression disappointed. Adrienne lowered her fist, and Icarus leaned back into his seat. With a disgusted _tsk_, Pallas raised his voice to speak.

"Tributes, I'm going to need your eyes and ears," he said. "And you're going to need my words. Today, we're going to have our first mentoring session."

He grabbed a remote from the table. With a press of a button, the screen in front of them lit up. It revealed a scene from a previous games, with a dark-haired boy and a girl with brown hair and somber grey eyes.

_No._

It was all too familiar.

"We learn from our mistakes, don't we?" Pallas said. "But in this game, you can't afford to make mistakes. So we must learn from others."

From a distance, another tribute raised her spear, aiming for the dark-haired boy. She sent it flying across the field, but before it was able to connect with his body, the grey-eyed girl jumped in front of him.

The spear pierced through her chest.

"Tsk tsk." Pallas shook his head. "What an idiot this girl was."

"Myrene," Icarus said. "Her name was Myrene."

Adrienne shot him a curious look. "You knew her?"

"Yeah, she was my—" Icarus stopped himself. _She was my... my... my what? _Pain welled in his chest as the memories came flooding back. The sound of her voice. Her smile. Her eyes, her lips. The way she threw her head back and put her hands over her mouth as she laughed, the way his heart rose whenever he saw her, and the way his heart fell when she left.

Icarus swallowed. "My friend," he said. "She was my friend."

"Well, condolences, Icarus," Pallas said. "What a shame she went so early."

Icarus leered at the man. "There's no shame in being a martyr."

"There is shame in wasting your potential. This will be your first lesson. It should be obvious at this point, but Myrene's example clearly shows that some people _still_ don't understand," Pallas said. "_Never_ put others above yourself."

"I disagree with that," Icarus retorted.

Pallas raised an eyebrow. "You have something to say, Icarus?"

Icarus took a breath. "You said we shouldn't put others above ourselves." Their scrutinizing gazes made him feel smaller, but Icarus did his best to speak in a steady tone. "But isn't that why we're here in the first place? We're risking our lives so someone else won't have to be reaped."

"Just because you volunteered to save a life doesn't mean you have to lose yours," Pallas's voice was stern. "You volunteer to protect someone else's life. But the minute you step into that arena, the only life you protect is your own."

"Yes, but—"

"Do you want to live, Icarus?"

Icarus swallowed. Yes, he wanted to live. More than anything, Icarus wanted to live.

He bit his lip. "I do, sir."

"Then why are you objecting?"

"Because," Icarus hung his head low as he searched his mind for right words, "Because I don't think we should write off what Myrene did. I think what she did was selfless."

Adrienne scoffed. "That doesn't make it any less stupid."

Pallas nodded. "Your partner's right, Icarus. Keep this in mind: In this game, selflessness _is _stupidity."

But Icarus knew Myrene. She knew exactly what she was doing.

_Why did you leave?_

But the answer was obvious, and Icarus knew it. She left District Four because she wasn't given a choice. She left earth because there was no point in staying.

"_Do you think we'd still count as martyrs?" s_he'd asked.

"_We're not dead yet, Myrene," _he had told him.

"_I didn't mean us as in _us._ I meant people like us. Volunteers."_

"_Why wouldn't we be?"_

"_People like us still kill. Is someone a martyr if he takes more lives than he saves?"_

Icarus didn't know if he could forgive himself for taking a life. He did not want to live with blood on his hands; he didn't want victory. But he didn't want death, either.

He wanted to change the past. He wanted to go back to his father. He wanted Myrine back. He wanted to go back in time to talk himself out joining the Academy, to talk _Myrene_ out of the Academy. He wanted to see her and tell her all the things he was too afraid to tell her, to give her all the reasons why he couldn't bear to see her go. Maybe if he had done so, she would have stayed.

But it was too late. What's done was done.

There was one great irony to being chosen: you yourself did not get a choice.

* * *

**Grant Bentley, 17, District Eight**

* * *

Grant had always liked things structured.

He had always lived by the rules. Back in the factories, he never needed to conjure up his own way. They told him how to do his job, and all he needed to worry about was getting it done.

Here, there was no structure. There were no rules. His course of action was now for him alone to decide, and as much as he hated admitting it, Grant didn't know what to do.

"—and last year there were so many mutts! If this arena had that many mutts, I think might just die! My ex-girlfriend's sister's boyfriend's cousin's best friend's aunt got reaped for the games once, and she got killed by a mutt. It was one of those weird cat things, the big ones with the black stripes. Or was it orange stripes? Anyways, I watched it and it looked really sick and really wicked and honestly pretty cool, but that was seriously messed up. The thing tore her to bits—I don't even think she had a body to bury. Isn't that just messed up, Grant? Grant? Grant are you listening?"

It was especially hard to think of a plan when his district partner seemed incapable of shutting up. Every so often, she would pipe in and ask him questions without bothering to wait for his answers, rambling on endlessly about things Grant couldn't bring himself to care about.

Then again, Grant couldn't bring himself to care about much anything.

But now, it seemed that she had _finally_ discovered his overt lack of attention. "I just realized," Ara said, "you haven't said anything all day. You're not mute are you? Are you mute? If you're mute, just nod. Or maybe you can't hear me—maybe that's why you aren't saying anything. You're deaf. You're not deaf, are you? Grant, are you deaf?"

Grant narrowed his eyes. "I wish I was."

Ara gasped. "That's an awful thing to wish for! Why would you want such a thing? Being deaf sounds horrible! I mean—can you imagine what it would be like if you couldn't—"Ara stopped herself before the last word left her lips. "Oh. Wait a minute. Oh. I get it. Okay, wow, ouch. That was rude."

As usual, Grant said nothing. It wasn't that he had nothing to say, it was just that he didn't see the point in small talk.

Then again, Grant didn't see the point in talking, period.

Attachments were the last thing they needed in a situation like this. And worse, Ara seemed doomed to die. She was too soft, too lighthearted, too caring to make it anywhere in the games, and district partner or not, he saw no reason to help her out. He didn't know her, and he didn't want to, either. Getting to know a lost cause seemed like a huge waste of time.

Then again, to Grant Bentley, getting to know _anybody_ seemed like a huge waste of time.

"Hello kids!"

_Oh no._

_Oh shit._

Grant looked up to find his escort staring down at them, a wide, creepy, fake-looking smile etched on her fake-looking face. As much as he hated to admit it, something about the woman scared him. Maybe it was because she looked like a clown. Maybe it was her enthusiasm. Maybe it was the fact that even as she spoke with a cheery tone and had a beaming grin permanently plastered on her face, she still managed to come off more soulless than he did.

"My name is Addie," she said in an overly-peppy voice, "and I'm going to aiding you throughout these games because your mentors are too busy being incompetent swine!" Addie put a hand over her mouth and gasped dramatically. "Woopsies, did I just say that? Anyways, how can I help you?"

Grant glowered at her. "We don't need your—"

"Any advice for the Tribute Parade?"Ara asked.

Addie's smile grew wider. "Ah, yes, the Tribute Parade! My second-favourite part of the games."

"What's the first?"

Addie brought her hands to her cheeks, tilted her head, and spoke in the dreamiest-sounding voice Grant had ever heard. "_Cold-blooded murder._"

Grant shuddered, his mouth falling open in a horrified expression. He glanced at Ara to see if she shared his confusion, but the girl looked unfazed. "Addie," she said, "what about the Tribute Parade?"

"Oh, right, the Tribute Parade! That's simple, really. All you need to remember is S-W-A-P!"

Ara raised an eyebrow. "Swap?"

"Yes, S-W-A-P! Smile, Wave, and Pose!"

"That doesn't seem helpful at all," Grant said flatly.

Addie didn't seem to care. "First, you _smile_!" Her grin grew so wide that Grant thought if she the corners of her mouth had stretched any further, it might have torn her face in half. "And then, you _wave._" She raised out her arm and swished it dramatically in the air, "And then," she said, pausing for effect, "you _pose._" Her lips puckered out as she enunciated the "p." Looking concentrated, she put her hands on her waist, her hips twirling around in a circular motion.

Grant stared at her blankly.

Addie clapped her hands to the side. "You try it!"

"I'd rather not."

As he glanced to the side, Grant could see Ara with her hand over her mouth, giggling. "Oh, come on, Grant," she said, trying to keep herself from laughing. "Do it for the Capitol."

"You, child, have a _great _facial structure," Addie remarked. "Has anybody every told you that?"

Grant narrowed his eyes. "No."

"Well, you do! So put it to good use! You know what would make it even better?"

"No."

"Smiling!"

"_No."_

"You don't have to be shy."

"I'm not sh-"

Before he could finish his sentence, she grabbed a hold of his wrist, yanking him out of his seat.

She went behind him. "First," she said, "you _smile._" She pinched both his cheeks, pulling the corners of his mouth. "And then," she grabbed his arm and shook it as she raised it in the air, "you _wave!_" She let go and pirouetted her way in front of him. In that same moment, Grant felt a strong desire to murder her on the spot. She didn't seem to notice. "And lastly," she said, "you _pose._"

Grant remained standing, stiff as an oak.

He hated her. He hated the Capitol, hated his district partner, hated his fate, hated that they removed him from the system he'd grown used to and made him afraid. Sure, he was selfish. Sure, he wasn't exactly a good person. And sure, unlike other people, Grant didn't have many people to mourn him. But just because he was less loved didn't mean he was less deserving of life.

None of this was fair.

Then again, was anything fair?

"Come on," Addie chimed. "Pose!"

Grant hesitated. He didn't want to humiliate himself in front of the Capitol, but at the same time, he didn't think it was a good idea to allow himself to become forgettable in their eyes either. Ridiculous as it was – it was her idea of a routine, and in Grant's experience, routine always worked. He let out a sigh.

Slowly, he put his hands on his hips. "Like this?"

Grant looked at his escort with an expectant gaze. She only laughed.

"Kid," she said, "you're so frigid you could freeze the entire ocean solid."

It took every nerve in Grant's body to hold back a scream.

* * *

**Altair Ravvos, Eighteen, District Nine**

* * *

Calia was drawing.

It was Altair who had suggested it. Both of them needed something to keep their minds off their worries, and drawing had been just the thing for Calia.

After several asymmetrical shapes, disproportionate bodies, stick figures, and jagged lines, Altair decided to stop. Pieces of paper were scattered all over the table: evidence of his (unsuccessful) attempts at art.

Meanwhile, Calia's paper was brimming with life. The entire surface had been filled with lines and lines of sketches, leaving her with barely any space to spare. She had drawn several faces—some of which Altair recognized as other tributes. On one corner, she had drawn a girl with a smug, smirking expression, whom Altair had come to realize was the girl from District One. Another image depicted a cheerful-looking boy. She left one eye unshaded, distinguishing him as the boy from Three. At the bottom of her paper was a sketch of a sulky, angry, admittedly mildly attractive-looking kid—unmistakably the boy from Eight.

Altair pointed at the image. "That one has a really nice facial structure."

"Thanks."

"Hey, is that me?" Altair asked, pointing at the drawing Calia had been working on. It showed a bust shot of a bald, smiling boy. "That's me, that's definitely me. We've got the same eyes."

"Nope," Calia said. She was smiling, Altair noticed. "I haven't added the hair yet."

She held her pencil tightly and squiggled all over the drawn boy's scalp. Her face reddened as she put a hand over her grinning lips. Then, she burst out laughing.

The portrait of "Altair" now had a crudely drawn afro.

"I knew it!" Altair said. "It is me! I just need to grow a squiggle afro. It _is _me."

"You wish," Calia scoffed.

"Yeah," Altair said. "I do wish. Come on, why don't you draw me?"

Calia looked annoyed. "Why does everyone ask for that?"

"I dunno. It's just cool to see yourself as a cartoon. And you're just so good, y'know?" He looked at her with genuine awe. "I can't draw to save my life."

"I wish I could draw to save my life," she said dryly. "So that when I'm bleeding to the brink of death tomorrow, all I would need to do is grab a pencil and doodle."

Her eyes were fixed on the paper, her hand idly scribbling aimless curves and lines.

"'How did you manage to survive, Miss Ventiere?'" Calia trailed off in a crude imitation of the interviewer's voice. "'Well, you see, sir, I drew to save my life."

Altair snorted. He let out a laugh and turned to Calia, expecting her to laugh with him, but the girl said nothing. Her eyes remained on the paper alone.

The silence left his chest welling with discomfort. The more Altair thought about her words, the less he found them funny. It was easy to joke about the bad things when you had never had them happen to you, and likewise, it was easy to joke about death when the idea of it felt so distant. Now that the possibility seemed so real, it was much harder to laugh about it.

Maybe she had never meant for it to be funny to begin with.

He changed the subject. "So, how'd you get so good at drawing?"

Calia didn't look at him. "By drawing."

Altair laughed nervously. "I didn't have time for this stuff back then," he trailed off. Whether he was talking to fill in the silence, or talking to distract himself, he didn't want to know. "I was always too busy with work. I was at always just at the fields, sometimes working longer than I had to. My friends keep telling me I should learn to let loose, but I couldn't bring myself forget about my job. Did you have a job back at home too, Calia?"

She didn't respond.

"Calia?" he repeated.

She looked up. "Hm?"

"I was just asking if…" Altair bit his lip. She was clearly disinterested, so what was the point? "Nevermind. Just keep drawing. It was nothing important."

"Oh," she said. "Okay."

She turned back to her paper, gripped her pencil, and let her hand glide across the surface. In the moments that passed, Calia did not look at him again, not once. She was completely disconnected from the world around her.

Altair wished he could detach himself like that.

With nothing to distract him, Altair's mind wandered back to its worries. It was all getting realer and realer. Death was almost a train stop away.

Could he do it, perhaps? Could he win? He didn't doubt his capabilities. He didn't doubt that he was skilled enough to survive. All that hard work in the fields must have counted for something, right?

But this game wasn't just about skill. It was about luck. It was like any game of cards. A gamble. Their abilities could get them far, but so much still depended on the cards they'd been given.

There was no predicting the outcome. Who was to say he wasn't going to get killed first?

_Don't think about that._

He was desperate for a distraction. Altair turned to Calia. Maybe if he talked less about himself, she would be more interested. "So do you paint?"

Thankfully, she replied this time. "Not much. Paint was always too expensive."

Altair smiled at her. "After all of this is over, try doing it more. Then sell your paintings."

"Maybe," she said. "But I've always been better at drawing."

"Sell your sketches!"

"That's a nice idea."

"Look at how _good_ you are," he said. "The Capitol's going to be all over this stuff."

A small smile formed on her face. "Thanks."

You'll make it big if you "

"I think I'll do that. Well, if I—"

She stopped herself, but her lips had already formed the word '_live.'_

Calia looked down. Her grip on the pencil weakened, and her hand quivered, moving much more slowly as it glided across the surface.

A tear dropped on her paper.

Calia folded her arms and lay them on the table, burying her face into them, weeping. Altair wanted to comfort her. He wished there was something he could say to make things easier, but it was hard to tell somebody not to be afraid when fear was gnawing right at his nerves.

He swallowed. His heart pounded harder. _Breathing _became harder.

_I am so scared._

* * *

**Briana Kobrick, 15, District Ten**

* * *

Briana liked being alone.

She found solace in solitude. Alone, there was nothing to distract her. Nobody was around to disturb her peace of mind.

But now, her mind was the farthest thing from peaceful. A million thoughts buzzed in her head — of her family, of her friends, of life, of the games, of _death_. Her chest felt heavy with fear, and when the escort had announced that they would make their arrival in less than an hour, the weight of dread only grew.

Briana took a deep breath. She shut her eyes as tears flowed down to her cheeks.

Every minute that passed was a minute closer to the arena. Every minute that passed was a minute closer to death.

"Are you okay?"

Briana looked up to find Mateo staring down at her with worried eyes. She shook her head, wiping a tear off her cheek.

Mateo took a seat next to her. "Hey." He put a hand over hers, offering a reassuring smile. "It's alright. You don't have to be afraid. Everything's going to be fine."

But Briana found that difficult to believe. For one thing, it would take someone extremely arrogant, extremely deluded, or extremely idiotic to believe that a death match was nothing to be afraid of. For another, Briana didn't trust Mateo. She had seen what he was like when he was alone— sulky, distant, detached, like a nuclear bomb radiating an aura of _depressing_.

"You don't believe that."

"What makes you say that?"

"You cried at your Reaping," Briana said flatly.

"What?" Mateo looked so defensive it was almost comical. "I did not. I— That was... Those were tears of _joy_."

"And what's there to be happy about?"

"The..." Mateo trailed, his eyes darting around the room, perhaps in search of an answer, "...the... food."

She snorted. "Bugger off."

"I'm just trying to make you feel better," he said. "And see, it worked—you've stopped crying."

Briana touched her cheek. He was right. Her tears had dried and her chest felt lighter, and her mind no longer buzzed with anxious thoughts.

She looked at him, allowing the smallest of smiles grace her lips. "Thanks."

"This is why you and I should stick together." Mateo grinned, nudging her playfully with his elbow. "Is it still a no to us being allies?"

Briana bit her lip. "Erm..." she trailed. "Yes."

"By _yes_ do you mean yes: we'll be allies, or yes: it's still a no?"

"Yes, it's still a no."

"No?" Mateo frowned. "Oh, come on. Do you hate me or something?"

Briana searched her mind for the right words. Some people didn't understand that sometimes, being alone was simply _easier_. "It's nothing against you, it's just— I work better on my own. I'd rather stick to myself."

But he quickly shook off the expression, looked at her, and offered a smile that seemed quite forced. "Well, if ever you need anybody— I'm still here, okay? Are you alright now?"

Her eyes darted away. The last thing Briana wanted to do was talk about herself. Her feelings were her business and her business alone. Sharing her thoughts felt like giving a part of herself away, and every time she tore another piece for others, she felt she made herself a little bit smaller, a little bit weaker.

Briana did not want to let herself be vulnerable. But at the same time, she didn't want to be rude. "Just a little bit worried," she said. "This whole thing's just... really terrifying."

"Its best if you don't think about it. All thinking does is make you _sad_. You know what I say? Don't think, just drink."

"What?"

Mateo pulled out a small, flattish metal flask. As he unscrewed the lid off, the unmistakeable stench of alcohol permeated the air. Briana wrinkled her nose in disgust. With a lopsided grin, Mateo held the flask out to her, saying, "Want some?"

Briana narrowed her eyes. "Where'd you get that?"

"I asked an Avox."

"What is it?"

"Hell if I know." Mateo took a sip. His face scrunched up upon swallowing. "It tastes like piss."

Her eyebrows furrowed. "If it's that bad, you should probably quit drinking it, then."

Mateo smiled. "What a naive child you are," he said, patting Briana on the head. "You don't drink for the taste. You drink to forget the shit taste of _life_." He held the flask out to her once more. "So, you want some or not?"

Briana shook her head. "I'll pass," she said. Part of her was tempted to say yes, but Briana possessed enough foresight to realize that getting drunk just as they were about to arrive the Capitol was a bad idea. The question was: did Mateo?

"More for me, then," Mateo said.

"I don't really think that's—"

But Mateo had already taken a swig, gulping down whatever was left. When he finished, he put the mouth of the flask close to his eye and squinted, peering inside of it.

He flipped it around and shook it. A few droplets dripped out out, then nothing. "It's gone."

Briana's eyes widened. "What?!"

Mateo rubbed his Adam's apple. "My throat's burning." He got up from his seat, nearly stumbling over as he tried to walk. "I'm going to get more."

"Don't!" Briana grabbed him by the arm.

Mateo pulled away. He narrowed his eyes. "You're such a _killjoy_." Whatever it was that he drank, it was kicking in _fast_. A wide grin spread across his face. "Ha-ha. Briana's a killjoy, Briana's a _killjooooooy."_

"I really think you should—"

"Call the peacekeepers! We have a murderer in our midst!" Mateo pointed an accusing finger at Briana. "A murderer of _joy._"

"Mateo, please—"

"See Briana, _this_ is my joy," Mateo raised the empty flask. The fingers of his free hand formed the shape of a shotgun, his index finger pointing at the flask. "And _this_ is what you're doing to it." Repeatedly, he bent his thumb while making crude imitations of gunshot sounds. "Pew. Pew. _Peeeeew_."

"MATEO!"

Mateo made a face. "What_?_"

"Have you forgotten? The Tribute Parade starts in _half an hour_!"

"Oh." The flask slipped from Mateo's fingers. It made several _clangs_ as it clattered to the floor. "_Oh_."

Mateo stared blankly at the fallen flask, and Briana stared blankly at Mateo. As her heart pounded hard against her chest, Briana breathed heavily, willing herself not to worry. Maybe Mateo was resilient enough to hold himself together for the next few hours. Maybe he wasn't _too _far gone, after all, it was only one flask. Maybe the drink wasn't that strong. Maybe the Capitol had a cure for intoxication.

But to Briana, out of all the maybes in existence, only one seemed most likely: Maybe none of those things would happen and Mateo would vomit off the side of the chariot.

Her heart hoped for the best, but her mind expected the worst. Briana took a long, deep breath.

This was going to be a long day.

* * *

**A/N: Fun fact! Like five of these tributes have been confirmed by their creators to swing both ways! I guess I should change this SYOT's name to... O-_BI_-vion.**

**Yeah spear me in the gut pls.**

**Sorry for the delay. Here's a future warning: Don't expect quick updates. I've just gotten back to school, and with graduation coming this March and all, things are bound to get busy. And there's the fact that I write slower than molasses. Updates may come sporadically at times, but don't worry- I'm determined to finish this.**

**Again, reviews would be lovely. They're not absolutely necessary, and nor will they have any effect on your tribute's placing, but they will make my soul feel nice and fuzzy. Do it for my soul. Thanks.**

**~(^u^~) See you next time!**


	7. Senseless Adolescence

**Chapter Seven**

* * *

**Westyn Arevalo, 18, District One**

* * *

The girl didn't talk. The boy talked too much.

Westyn hadn't bothered to learn their names. In the long run, they weren't important. What was the point of remembering something that was to be engraved on a tombstone anyway? If in the future, for whatever reason, she needed to remember them, she could always just check their graves.

She hadn't remembered which District they came from either, but she guessed it was Four, because they were dressed like fish, and smelled like it, too.

"Icarus, right?" Owen asked.

"You can call me Ike." The boy gave them a dumb, goofy grin that made Westyn sick to her stomach. It was probably an act. He was being all smiley… to _trick_ them. "Wait a minute— I just realized. I hadn't learned either of your names."

Westyn stifled a laugh. _Me neither._

Owen gestured at her. "This is West."

"_Westyn,_" she corrected.

But Four ignored her. "West?" he said with a laugh. "Are you serious? Please tell me _your_ name's East."

"No," Owen said. His lip curled into a smirk. "But you can call me South. Or North. Take your pick."

Westyn couldn't tell what Owen was thinking, but knowing him, it was most likely something dirty. That slut.

"Why those two?" the kid asked.

"Because my south shot up north the moment I saw you."

The kid looked confused. "I don't understand what that means."

Owen winked. "It means whatever you want it to mean."

Four scratched his head. "I think I should go—I think District Two's ready. I'm gonna call them over here," he turned to the girl. "Adrienne, you coming?"

The red-haired girl's face was contorted in irritation. Though Westyn wasn't sure she could call it contorted, for the girl had already looked pretty irritated from the beginning. Nonetheless, Four(the girl) followed Four(the smiley face) off to call District Two.

Owen waved at them. "See ya."

Westyn sent him a light punch in the arm. "You sleaze."

Owen shrugged. "These kids are gonna be dead in a week. Might as well score with 'em while they're still alive."

Her face scrunched up. "That's disgusting."

The sleaze smirked. "Oh, and murder isn't?"

Westyn threw up both her middle fingers.

She wasn't a good person. She knew it; she could care less. Nobody won by being good. You won by pushing every selfish instinct into a merciless fist, by hardening your heart, by fighting for nobody else but yourself.

If that was bad, so be it.

If being bad meant she could be free again, so be it.

The Fours came back with District Two. From the moment she had seen them at their Reapings in the recap program, Westyn deemed the pair incompetent. The boy stuttered his name out when he volunteered, while the girl… well, the girl had carried herself confidently, striding up to the stage with grace but—

But she looked like a bimbo.

Upon closer inspection, Westyn realized that her initial assumptions were right. Two(the boy), was in fact, shy and stutter-y as could be, almost a foreigner to social interaction, and Two(the bimbo) was as empty-headed as Westyn had imagined.

But Westyn supposed she could be useful. After all, empty heads could so easily be filled.

She allowed herself a small smile. _Here comes trouble._

"Psst." Westyn poked at the girl's arm. "I have something important to tell you."

Two looked at her curiously. "What is it?"

Westyn put a hand on Two's shoulder and pointed at the redhead from Four. "You see that girl?"

"You mean Adrienne?"

"Yeah." _I don't give a shit what her name is._ "You know what she said about you?"

"No," District Two said in an airy voice. "I don't know what she said about me."

_Was this girl for real?_ Two was proving to be more of an idiot than Westyn had imagined, but nonetheless, she tried to keep her voice calm. "She said she wanted to get rid of you and your district partner first."

"Why?"

"Because," Westyn lowered her voice, "she says you two are the weak links."

Two blinked twice, looking shocked. She furrowed her eyebrows and looked at Westyn, and Westyn smiled inside, excitement stirring her from within.

Westyn expected agitation. She expected distress. Most of all, she expected anger. She expected indignation and fury and a desire for vengeance, a desire to hurt.

A desire for blood.

But Two opened her mouth.

"I'm sorry, but what's a lynx?" She looked genuinely confused. "That's some kind of cat, right?"

"No, no," Westyn said. She forced herself to retain a patient tone. "_Link_."

"So just one cat?"

Westyn palmed her forehead. "She said she thinks you two are the most useless members of the alliance and that she wants you to die first."

"Oh that's… mean."

Westyn smiled in exasperated relief. It was finally working. "Isn't it? Doesn't it make you want to get back at her?"

Two's eyes darted away. She stayed silent for a while, eyebrows knit in deep contemplation. Westyn quivered with anticipation.

_Yes, it does_, Westyn expected her to say.

_Yes, I do. _

_Yes,_ Westyn wanted to hear._ Let's make her pay._

But again, Two opened her mouth. "Not really."

Westyn's eyes widened in disbelief. "What?"

"I said," Two's calm voice grew louder, "_Not really_."

"I know what you said."

"But you said _what?_"

In frustration, Westyn half wanted to tear her own hair off, half wanted to tear Two's guts apart. She opened her mouth to retort, but before she could say anything more, Two pointed a finger at something and said, "Hey, look. There she is now."

_What?_

And there was Four, arms folded, glaring. Her leering eyes remained fixed on Westyn as she walked to them.

_Fuck._

"Excuse us, Devonna," Four said, without removing her eyes from Westyn.

Two nodded. Without another word, she sauntered off, leaving Westyn with Four alone.

Westyn stifled an irritated groan. "So what did you hear?"

"Everything."

She huffed. _I don't have time for this. _Westyn put a foot down and prepared to march off, but Four stamped a heel in front of her, blocking her way.

Her glare was severe. "You're turning Devonna against me."

Westyn shrugged. "I'm just trying to play the game as best as I can."

"The game hasn't begun."

"You just feel threatened now that I've given myself a headstart." Westyn flipped her hair. With the swing of an arm, she shoved Four aside, striding off.

"Look," Four said. "It's not smart to start fights with someone on your side."

Westyn spun on her heel.

Her eyes fell on Four, flickering dangerously. "I am not on your side."

"Quitting the alliance, are you?"

"I'm not stupid," Westyn scoffed. "We can work together. We can fight together. But know this: whatever league we have, that's temporary. In the end, it's not just going to be us against them." She drew closer, fixing the red-haired girl into a penetrating leer. "It's going to be you against me."

Four stared back with her head high. As they held the silence, they held each other's gazes, stares boring though one another other in unrelenting hostility.

A knife of a smile cut across Westyn's face. It was a wicked smile, closed-lipped and smug and challenging, a malevolent curl of the mouth that was simultaneously inviting and cautionary. It lent a silent warning: _Try._

_You can't come at me without getting cut._

Four's voice was low and daring. "You think I'm afraid?"

Westyn nearly laughed. "No." Her words were barely a whisper, yet they carried the menace of a scream. "I _know_ you are."

* * *

**Varia Boulton, 17, District Three**

* * *

Varia bit her lip, holding in a cry of pain as a Capitolite woman pulled a strip of cloth from her leg.

"We're nearly done," the woman said.

"Oh, are we? While you're at it, why not wax away my morals and empathy?" Varia said sardonically. "Not like I'm gonna need them."

The woman frowned. "Cut the snark, kid. The Capitol doesn't like a smart mouth."

"Because the Capitol doesn't like what it isn't intelligent enough to comprehend."

"What?"

_You just proved my point._ "Nothing."

With an irritated tsk, the woman shook her head. "You teenagers. Always acting like you know everything."

"I could say the same thing for adults."

The woman rolled her eyes.

If this had been the past, Varia would have allowed herself a cheeky, satisfied smirk. But this time, small victories were harder to be happy about. Apprehension now outweighed all other emotions, and anything that wasn't anger or fear required a great deal of energy to express. Even apathy now took effort.

It was an effort she chose to take.

Her prep team finished, and soon, they passed her on to her stylist. But Varia was somewhere else. Submerged in her worries, suffocated by her emotions.

She drifted off, her mind conjuring up a million thoughts. Chandra. District Three. The alliance. Chandra. The games. Chandra. Her family. Her friends. Chandra. Death. The interviews. Training. Chandra.

_Could he have been right?_

His persistence compelled her to agree to his plan. Varia envied it. She envied his confidence, envied his certainty. It was almost unfair that he could remain determined to stick to a plan she'd shot down several times while _she_ could only doubt, doubt, _doubt._

Chandra, she was okay with. The four other outer-district slobs? She wasn't quite sure.

Besides, it wouldn't work out. People had tried, but failure was a statistical consistency. And yet, he insisted they'd benefit from it. _Protection,_ he'd said. _Protection._ Varia knew fully well – protection wasn't enough to weigh out the disadvantages. Protection was not the only thing that came with large alliances.

_What else?_

Disagreements. Disputes. Disorder. Instability. Growing mistrust. Tension. Betrayal.

_What else? _

Companionship. Attachments. Loss.

_What else?_

Grief.

There was always Plan B.

Or Plan C. Or Plan D. And the rest that followed. There was also Plan U, if things got rough. Plan V was in development, and if another situation called for it, Plan W would come into existence soon enough.

Being prepared always came in handy.

Plan A: Join Chandra's Alliance. Get all buddy-buddy with a bunch of strangers. Make friends with the doomed. They'll stay by your side and protect you, for what it's worth. Face your inevitable fate. Watch silently as everything you built together crashes down. Lose these friends. Get sad. Win. Cry.

_Pfff. As if. _

Plan B: Join Chandra's Alliance, but not _really. _Be there and let them protect you. Allow them to care about you, but don't allow yourself to care anything for them. To believe the best in people is to delude your mind, and to feel for others is to bring about your own destruction. Attachments will only hurt you in the end. Trust will get you killed. If you sense in yourself even the slightest trace of sentimentality, run. Leave before grief racks your bones.

Plan C: Make your own alliance. You will have less people to protect you, but you will also have less people to lose.

Plan D: Don't make any allies. Don't make any friends. You will never have to see a broken body and feel broken yourself.

Plan E: Give up. Make the most out of the few days of living you have left, but know that there's no point in trying anymore. Know that whatever the outcome is, whether it be life or it be death, in the end, you will always lose.

_No._

Varia discarded the thought. Though it always helped to anticipate the worst, she wouldn't get anywhere by thinking _too_ negatively.

But she couldn't help it. As much as she wanted to listen to optimism, pessimism always spoke louder.

_I don't want to die. I don't want to die._

"Variable?"

It was Chandra's voice. Varia swallowed her fear. As she turned to him, she willed herself to smirk, faking a smug expression. "Chandelier."

"You ready to come out?" he asked.

"What, do I need to?" Her voice dripped with sarcasm. "I thought I had already made it obvious."

Chandra sighed. "I meant out _the room_."

Varia faked a snort. She faked a laugh. She faked indifference.

Ready? She wasn't. Varia never was. But she did what she could to be prepared, and this meant avoiding what could go wrong. And avoiding what could go wrong meant fearing it. And fearing it meant seeing everything that could go wrong, every time, everywhere.

"Yeah. Just give me a sec."

Chandra's eyes looked concerned. Or at least, the blue one did. "Are you okay? You look worried."

"Worried?" she scoffed. "That's a conjectural assumption."

"It was an observation."

"Observations are subjective," Varia said, matter-of-factly. "You can't state an observation and declare it to be the objective truth."

"My statement was never objective to begin with. I said you _looked_ worried. I didn't say you _were_. That means: your accusation of me making a conjectural assumption was also a conjectural assumption. And trying to prove that you aren't worried just shows that, maybe, you really are."

A frown tugged at her lips.

Chandra smirked. "Boom. Checkmate."

Varia leered at him. She stuck her tongue out, making a sound that went "_nyuh_."

He was right. And it was tearing her apart.

Chandra took a seat next to her.

In her exhaustion, she let herself rest her head on him. And in her resignation, she let him put an arm around her shoulder, unprotesting to his sympathy, unobjecting to his embrace.

There were two reasons for which this rare display of vulnerability was permitted. One: she was too weak to keep feigning strength. Two: Varia supposed, somebody who she was certain would never hurt her was allowed to see her vulnerable.

She could let herself trust. Just this once.

He let go of her. "Let's go meet the others."

Varia nodded. She didn't want to, but she guessed it was best. Now was time to distract herself. Now was time to pretend.

* * *

**Ziva Langely, 18, District Five**

* * *

Ziva wanted to take a look at the other tributes.

"Hey Ziva, do you want to take a look at the other tributes?"

Ziva no longer wanted to take a look at the other tributes.

Nyko filled the silence when Ziva did not reply. "You know, assess opponents, pick out our allies—"

She knit her eyebrows. "_Our _allies?"

"Oh—I. Sorry. I just assumed—"

"You assumed that I wanted to stick with you just because we're from the same district."

Nyko seemed to shrink as she leered at him, her gaze judging, scrutinizing. "District loyalty and all." He pressed his lips into a smile, but it was more anxious than warm. "I know I'm not much, but I'm from home. Just think about it, okay?"

Her leer softened. "I'll take it into consideration."

Ziva did not take it into consideration.

"At least come with me to scope the competition."

Ziva groaned. "Fine."

She loathed being the follower.

As they strolled along the line of chariots and tributes, Nyko tried to start some small talk, prying all sorts of information from her – _what did you do for a living? Did you know this person? What do you miss about home_— information that Ziva deemed insignificant, information that would stop mattering once one or both of them fell dead. And Ziva gave half-hearted answers. Truths devoid of sentiments, facts devoid of feeling. _I worked at the factories. No, I don't know Alera. I don't miss home._

And whenever they would pass by a tribute Nyko would try to convince her to take them for an ally. But every tribute, she'd shot down with a snide remark— _District Six can't offer much, that girl's too young, that girl looks boring, that boy looks untrustworthy, that alliance is getting too large, he looks like a madman, she looks like a toddler—_

"Jeez," Nyko said, exasperation racking his tone, "is anybody good enough for you?"

The short, partially truthful though imprecise answer was: _No._

The long answer was: _It's not a matter of being good enough. _

There would be people who met her standards, who had strengths she deemed useful, but the question was— why would they lend her their aid? Who was she to be worthy of their concern? Was she anything to them, and more importantly, were they anything to her?

The very nature of this game made trust impractical. People wouldn't save her. People would only save themselves.

There was a sudden eruption of noise. A human noise. It wasn't quite a scream, yet, it wasn't quite speech either.

She could make out a few words. A "something" that sounded like "sumfim" and an "understand" that sounded more like "un-duh-stan."

It was a boy. About her age or older. As she looked closer, Ziva noticed there was something… off about his demeanor. He'd been wandering about aimlessly, unsteady on his legs. His eyes were distant and unfocused, and lopsided grin graced his features.

Nyko, too, was staring at him.

Ziva asked, "What the heck is he doing?"

"Singing," Nyko said. "I think."

Turned out he was, but it sounded less like music, and more a sloppy succession of whale-like noises strung together with a discordant rising and falling of tone. As the boy drew nearer, his words were gaining coherence. "_Please say to me, I wanna hold your hand_," he tried to sing. His fingers coiled gently around Nyko's wrist. "I wanna hold your hand."

Nyko smiled. "It's yours to hold."

A grin spread across the boy's face. "I'm so happy."

"Why?"

"Because I'm not sad."

"And why aren't you sad?"

The boy's eyes widened. "You_ want_ me to be _sad?_"

Knitting his eyebrows in anger, he jerked his hand away from Nyko and nearly stumbled over. As he staggered backwards, Ziva caught a whiff of a musty, bitter stench.

Everything clicked together all at once.

Ziva nudged her district partner by the elbow. "Nyko," she warned. "We ought to just leave."

"Noooooo. Don't leave," the boy said, gripping her wrist. "I wanna hold your hand."

"Get off me!" she yanked her arm away, sending the boy reeling.

Nyko's eyes widened, grabbing the boy's hand before he could fall. "Are you okay?"

"It hurts," he said.

"What hurts?"

"Life."

Both Ziva and Nyko stared at the boy in utter confusion. He didn't look at either of them, his eyes downcast. "I'm so sad."

"You just said you weren't," Ziva snapped.

Neither the boy nor Nyko paid her any mind. Nyko asked, "Why are you sad?"

The boy bowed his head. "Because I'm not happy."

"Why aren't you happy?"

"Because…"

Ziva expected another senseless answer. Instead, the boy lifted his head, eyes wandering then staring off wistfully into sky, and said, "Because life doesn't mean anything."

_What the fuck._

"Mateo!"

"Brianana!"

Ziva whipped around. The voice that called Mateo's name came from a little girl—not quite little, just young, blonde hair whishing back and forth as she ran to them, eyes wide with worry.

"Briananana!"

"Are you his district partner?" Nyko asked.

"Yeah," the girl replied. "I'm so sorry—"

"Brianananana—"

Ziva shot her a glare. "What the fuck is wrong with him?"

Nyko asked, "Is he okay?"

"Briananananana— "

"Please forgive him," Brianana or Briananana or whatever her name was quaked. "He's—"

"Bria_nanananananana_—"

"—intoxicated."

"Intoxicated?" Mateo slurred his words. It sounded more like _intosicade_. "I'm not intoxicated! Can an intoxicated person do this?"

Ziva couldn't tell whether it was a deliberate demonstration of his intent, or an unfortunate, purely accidental succession of events, when Mateo surged forward, grabbed her district partner by the shoulders, and vomited full onto Nyko's chest.

* * *

**Neleh Tourrey, 17, District Seven**

* * *

Teenagers were quite the pity, Neleh surmised.

Adolescence, perhaps, was one of the most difficult stages of life. Of course, this hypothesis was drawn from a biased perspective, for Neleh had yet to experience any of the latter stages, but even so, the more she looked at the facts, the more they seemed to support it. Teenagers were kids in some ways, grown-ups in others, but altogether they got the worst traits of both. They still had a childlike lack of life experience while developing adult sentience, which were added to a heightened sense of self-consciousness that was wholly unique to themselves. And thus, pain felt heavier, not only because they were unused to it, but also because they were so intensely aware of it.

And Neleh was aware of it. She was aware of where she was and what could happen, aware that she was distressed and angry and afraid, that she did not know much, that she was no longer truly certain of what to do, that she was no longer truly certain of _anything_. Fear could swallow her if she'd succumbed. If she'd let herself wither under the weight.

But was determined to fight it. So she did what she had always done: cut the feeling from the root, separate the emotion from the thought that had conceived it, and leave behind nothing but the cold, numbness of logic.

_Where you are, death is close. But if you find a way out, it won't be. So keep looking._

_Evade it._

Her district partner's voice brought her out of her thoughts. "You don't talk much, do you?"

Neleh pointed a finger to her head. "I'm louder in here."

"You worried?"

"I'd rather not be."

"Which is to say," Elian said, "you _are_."

Neleh said nothing back. She was, but dwelling on it would do her no good. People did not get far when they only thought of what could go wrong. People got far when they thought of what should be done _right_.

Two ear-splitting screams pierced the air.

"What's that?"

Elian said, "Trouble, probably."

Neleh thought_, something interesting, probably_.

Without looking back, she rushed off to find the source of the commotion. Elian didn't follow. Soon enough she found that the chaos came from a set of tributes: A curly haired girl, mouth gaping open in shock and anger; a boy, drunkly staggering about; his wide-eyed, panicking district partner, trying to keep him under control; and lastly, a boy, shell-shocked and distant, his clothes stained with vomit.

She remembered all their names. Ziva, Mateo, Briana, Nyko.

Neleh approached Ziva first. "What's going on?"

"This _idiot_ puked on my district partner."

Hostile, Neleh noted. Irritable. Possibly aggressive. Neleh left herself a mental note: _Approach with caution._

She spoke as calmly as she could. "Do you want me to call somebody?"

"No," Ziva snapped. "I'll do it myself."

Independent. Self-reliant. Stubbornly individualistic. Note: _Do not offer help. Provide assistance only when requested._

Before Ziva could leave, a stylist came rushing toward them, his face contorted in rage. "What is this? Who is responsible for this?"

Nyko, Ziva, and Briana all pointed to Mateo.

The man turned to him, his face a mixture of anger and disgust. "What's wrong with you?"

Mateo sneered, "What's wrong with _you?_"

"What's wrong with _me? _What's wrong with _ME?_"

Nyko stepped in. "Sir, forgive him. He's drunk."

But the man ignored him. "How do you expect me to recreate this in time for the parade? Do you think costumes just grow out of trees?"

"Yes," Mateo said flatly.

"Yes? _YES?!"_ The stylist eyes widened in fury, his face growing red. "Do you have any idea how long this took for me to make?"

Mateo stared at him, his face blank. "No."

"Three days! _Three days! _And you _ruined_ it!" The man was practically fuming at this point. "Are you happy? Are you satisfied? Are you proud you destroyed my creation?"

A small, dreamy, drunken smile settled on Mateo's face. "Maybe."

In a fit of rage, the stylist let out a loud, piercing scream. Neleh covered her ears. So did Ziva.

"You," he pointed at Ziva, "this is _your_ fault!"

"Me?"

"I told Nyko to stay put so nothing would happen. If you hadn't left, he wouldn't—"

"_He_ asked _me_ to come with him!" Ziva snapped.

Belligerent, Neleh noted. Consider: _The enemy of one's enemy is a friend._

_You want her trust?_

_Fight for it._

"It's not her fault," Neleh said.

"Of course it's Ziva's fault. She knew—"

"It was impossible to have foreseen these—"

"Anything could have happened. I knew _something_ would. She could have reduced that risk by _staying put_."

"If you claim that Ziva should have anticipated all possibilities, then you should have been prepared as well. Why didn't you make a second copy of the costume when you say you knew_ something_ would have happened to it?"

The man stared at her, his mouth gaping open, as if about to retort. His face fell from anger to irritation, to frustration and defeat. No words left his lips.

She turned to Ziva, who was staring her, eyes betraying interest. Neleh smiled a little inside. _It worked. _

Just then, a woman—most likely a Capitolite official—came over to assess the situation. Nyko and Briana explained what happened, while the stylist burst into a long-winded spiel, letting out strings of curses and profanities, sentences so loud and full of anger Neleh could almost see the exclamation points floating in the air.

The woman spoke into a device. "We've got a costume situation. Delay the parade. Say it's technical difficulties. Tell all tributes to go back to their places. Go call a nurse as well."

Nyko's stylist pointed at Mateo. "I expect that he be punished."

"Punished?" Ziva's face contorted, her eyes wide with fury. "What, like being sent to your death isn't enough?"

"For destroying art?" The stylist let out a laugh, low and cruel. "He deserves something worse than death."

The next few seconds were a blur.

Ziva's fingers curled, and with a swing of her arm, her knuckles were within a millimeter's distance from the man's face. But before her fist could smash against it, Nyko grabbed her wrist.

"Ziva," he warned. "_Don't_."

There was no impact, no collision made.

"Fuck you," she spat, but not at Nyko. Not at Neleh.

The stylist leered back, his gaze hostile. But he said nothing to Ziva, only leaving a soft, barely audible mutter before walking away. _Kids, _he mumbled. _Fucking barbaric, all of them._

"They should let us kill _them_ instead," Ziva said, her voice low, full of anger, full of hate. "Fuck them. Fuck their sick game."

Any desire to ally with Ziva dissipated in that moment. Neleh could analyze her as much as she could, but the girl's volatility proved that her actions could not be predicted. She was too erratic. Too dangerous. Like a blade Neleh couldn't use without cutting herself first.

Nyko looked over at Neleh. "You should go."

Neleh nodded, but remained where she was. The area emptied itself soon enough. Nurses and officials came to escort the pair from Ten off, while Nyko and Ziva headed off for their chariots together. And Neleh did as she had always done: cut away from the situation, separate herself from the conflict, and simply watch from the background, a silent, detached observer of a far less silent world.

Teenagers were quite the pity, Neleh concluded.

In their vulnerability they grew thorns or shells or shields or whatever they could find to protect themselves. Mateo, in his thoughtless escapism; Ziva, in her bullheaded aggression, and even Neleh herself, in her cold, logical detachment.

Perhaps this was why the Capitol chose _them_ for their game. Not children, who were too juvenile to fully comprehend the weight of their actions. Not adults, who were already so known for their capacity to be cruel that ruthlessness would have already been expected of them. No, they needed teenagers, who were impressionable yet aware, vulnerable yet dangerous, impulsive, uncertain, unwise, and best yet, underestimated. They needed teenagers, with all their savage potential, _teenagers_– simultaneously tragic and lethal.

War was for grown-ups, games were for kids. Fitting they got the in-between.

* * *

**Ara Midias, 15, District Eight**

* * *

Ara hadn't always been a talker.

Then again, she hadn't always been sentenced to death, either.

But the nerves were piling up on her, stirring her up from the inside, and she had no choice but to make her outside voice louder than the one within. If she hadn't said anything, hadn't distracted herself, she probably would have broken down.

District Three, at least, was responsive. Better yet, they were enthusiastically so. Her conversations were no longer one-sided, Ara was happy to find that unlike Grant, the two were eager to participate in them. Chandra was open, and Varia, though guarded, was nonetheless friendly. It was no longer necessary to fill in the silence herself.

"I used to work at—"Ara stopped herself when she realized she was speaking in past tense. "I mean– I work at the factories. Heavy lifting and all that." Jokingly, she flexed an arm to show off a sinewy bicep.

Chandra turned to Varia, "Looks like we've picked the right girl."

Ara grinned. "Damn right you did."

"Bless District Eight for teaching you something useful," Varia said. "Programming's all_ I_ know. Software development's not gonna save me here."

Chandra put a hand over Ara's ear and whispered, "Nerd."

"Hey, I heard that!" Varia folded her arms. "And it's not like I wanted it. My mom kinda forced me into it. I didn't really have a say." Varia's eyes met Ara's. "I know they mean well, but parents can be so annoying sometimes, don't you agree?"

"I don't have parents," Ara said flatly.

The two let out a simultaneous "oh."

It took a while for her to realize her mistake. "Oh—I," Ara fumbled, "I didn't mean to be so flippant about it. What I meant was, I did, but they sort of… left."

"I'm so sorry," Varia said.

"No—it's fine. Sorry for bringing up the heavy stuff so early. I mean, we've just met, that was so inconsiderate of me."

"It's okay, Ara." Chandra put a hand on her shoulder. "You're fine, though?"

She smiled at him. "Yeah, of course I am." _Yeah, of course, I am lying._ Quickly, she changed the subject. "So what made you wanna be allies with little old me?"

Varia and Chandra exchanged a look.

"Erm…"

"Well…."

"We…" Chandra trailed off, "Well, we…. think… you're….."

Varia said, "We actually came here to talk to your district partner."

_Oh_, Ara thought.

_Well of course you did._

"It's not that we didn't see anything in you, it's just that he—

"He has a…"

"A…"

"A face."

"It's a very nice face," Chandra added.

"I could kiss it," Varia said.

Ara wrinkled her nose. She couldn't see how his angry, apathetic, perpetually cold face could appeal to any person, let alone two. Faces were good for two things: smiling and kissing, and if they were incapable of the former, they weren't worth the latter.

Or maybe she was just angry she couldn't get to him. Mad that he'd been so closed off. She'd been friendly, she'd been nice; the least he could do was tell her politely that he needed his space. He didn't have to treat her like a pest when all she wanted to do was make conversation. It made her feel… unwanted.

And being unwanted was the worst feeling in the world.

If only District Three knew what they were getting themselves into. "You're lucky you have such a pretty district partner," Chandra said.

Varia smirked. "What? Am I not pretty enough for you, Chandra?"

"Sorry." He waved a dismissive hand at her. "All sass and no ass ain't the way I like it."

"Says the boy with no ass and no class."

Chandra made a face and stuck his tongue out. "Nyuh," he went.

Ara laughed, but an unsettling feeling seeped inside of her. She envied their familarity. The pair possessed the closeness Ara wanted, but wasn't able to achieve with Grant, a bond that manifested itself in quips and banter, in friendly battles of the wit. She envied the way their friendship did not require carefulness, how they were never not fighting, yet at the same time, never not by each other's side.

_Stop thinking about that_, she told herself.

This was pessimism, and pessimism, Ara had always made sure to drown out with loud, unbearable optimism.

Now, it wasn't working.

_How could you think positive in a place like this?_

It all went back to inadequacy. It was only a subconscious thought, just background noise she'd never paid much attention too, but now, in the midst of fear and anxiety, it was growing louder and louder. _You're not good enough_, her head said, and she tried not to listen, but she could no longer drown it out, _you're not good enough, you're not worth enough, your parents left because you're not worth enough to be loved, Grant doesn't care about you, Varia won't, Chandra won't—_

Ara was a creature of compassion. She wanted to feel wanted, needed to feel needed, and loved to feel loved. Living without validation was almost impossible for her, so she strived to be something people valued.

And she valued them, too. It was just as impossible to live without loving.

But loving didn't have a place here.

* * *

**Edric Revian, 18, District Eleven**

* * *

In the extra two hours they'd been given after the Capitol chose to the delay the parade(for technical difficulties, they said), Edric's stylist had chosen to add a few enhancements to his costume, and by enhancements, he meant more corn. Initially, only his tie had been studded with the grain, but now, every inch of his costume had been embellished with fake-gold kernels.

It was so horribly distasteful that Edric found it absolutely perfect. He'd already found a pick-up line to match. It was rather corny.

He licked the tip of his fingers, then ran a hand over his hair, slicking it back. To his district partner, he asked, "How do I look?"

Delaney appeared unimpressed. "Like an idiot."

Edric smirked. "Should I take them off, then?"

"What?"

It took him a while to realize she hadn't said what he wanted her to say. "Oh. Well, I expected you to say 'Those clothes look dumb.' And I was gonna get back at that with, 'Should I take them off, then?'" Edric said. "But since it failed, let's try that again."

"And boost your ego?" Delaney scoffed. "I'd rather not."

"That wasn't a yes or no question."

"I don't care. No's still my answer."

He ignored her. "Lauris, how do these clothes look?"

"A hundred times better than the wearer."

Edric snorted. His smirk remained on his face, unaffected, uncaring. Some deep-seated insecurity within him gave him immunity to insults. Why should he care about what others thought when he'd already known so well the truth about himself? He might have been shallow, useless, too reckless, too shameless, too brazen, and too incompetent to ever get anywhere in life, but he knew for a fact he wasn't bad-looking.

When the silence was getting too long for his liking, he changed the subject. "Pick a district you wanna bang."

Her face contorted into an irritated expression. "I've told you a hundred times—I'm not comfortable with this."

Edric didn't care. Edric never cared. "I'd say Two. Eight's great, but the girl's too young."

"Wait, you're talking about _both_ tributes?"

A wide grin spread across his face. "The more the merrier, right?"

Delaney wrinkled her nose in disgust. "You're such a floozy."

The term she used was far less delicate, and a syllable shorter than "floozy," but Edric would rather pretend it was something else.

"That's a harsh way to put it, Lauris. Why not think of me as… bold? Nondiscriminatory? Open? Besides, I don't think closing my mind would do me any good."

"Closing your legs would do you some good," she deadpanned.

"Smart mouth you've got there, Lauris." With a wink, he added, "Want me to give it a kiss?"

"How bout I kiss your face with my fist?"

He was about to get back at that with "Save the rough play for the bedroom," but it was soon announced that the parade was to begin.

_Finally._

Edric climbed onto the chariot. Once he got there, he held his hand out to Delaney, offering to help her up. She didn't take it.

He turned his head. Behind him, two tributes from Twelve held hands. In front of him, the girl from Ten held on to her district partner, but not in the united way that Twelve did; it looked more as if the boy were falling, and the girl was doing all she could to keep him up. Edric stifled a laugh.

And then it began. The horses surged forward, dragging his chariot, the wind whipping against their bodies.

The crowd roared and he'd felt it, their cheers echoing against his ears, their applause concurring with his heart's pulsating beat, their euphoria in his body, their delirium in his bones.

It wasn't for him. Or at least, not specifically.

But, he thought, it could be. He wanted it to be.

He decided it would.

Edric held on to the edges of the chariot. Knees bent, a devil of a smile on his face, heart screaming rhythmic litanies, _duh-doot, duh-doot, duh-doot, _Edric braced himself, and with legs kicking against the floor of the moving chariot, he pushed himself out of it, leaping straight into the air.

For Edric, it was for this reason that they'd written _rest in peace_ on gravestones: peace was for the dead. The living got chaos. To be alive meant to be without rest.

This is what it meant to be alive: to be careless, to act on brazen impulse, with recklessness, to let thrill force your heart to drum against fearful beats against your chest. To know that this drumbeat has always been a reminder of the fact that _you are living_.

This is what it meant to be alive: to walk so close to living's edge and laugh. To see dying for what it is—a possibility you'd chosen not to fear.

No, he thought, _this_ is what it meant to be alive: to taunt death as you tempt it.

The short, fleeting moment he'd been in the air felt like an eternity. Euphoria rushed through him. He felt unstoppable. Unbreakable. Invincible.

_Alive._

He steeled himself for the impact. Through sheer willpower, Edric forced his body to start falling perpendicularly to the pavement, and when he landed, he dug one heel on the ground as the soles of his shoes went grinding against the concrete, momentum forcing him to slide.

Edric steadied himself. Body ragged but ecstatic, he threw his hands up in the air, holding his head high. From the crowd came a burst of cheers, a deafening eruption of applause. Edric grinned. He didn't have to look at them to know they were all looking at him.

The moment was almost enough to make him forget his insecurities. Almost enough to make him forget he hated himself.

_Almost_, he thought, but if he'd thought about it even further, his smile would have faltered.

When Delaney got off the chariot, he expected concern. Or amazement. He wanted to see at least a smidgen of worry in her eyes. Or awe. At least one "You could have broken your neck, dumbass," or maybe, though Edric tried not to get his hopes up, one "That was amazing, Edric."

He expected her to say: _You could have died._

And he wanted to come back with: _Won't we all?_

But instead, she didn't say anything. Her face was blank, unimpressed as it had always been. She had only spared him a quick, disinterested glance, then turned to walk away.

Edric couldn't tell whether it was plain teenage apathy, or the resignation of a girl who knew what was to come. Or maybe she just didn't want to give him the satisfaction of knowing he mattered.

On the grand scheme of things, he really _didn't_ matter. But not mattering didn't really matter either. Edric was satisfied with this perceived insignificance. He cared not for how long he'd lived nor how much he mattered nor what his life had meant. He only cared that he lived it.

Or at least, that was what he told himself.

For Edric, this is what it meant to be alive: to forget that life meant nothing.

* * *

**A/N: This is gonna be a bitch to type.**

**I'm sorry. I haven't been alright these past few weeks. Some personal issues I'd rather not delve on. I've been suffering from a really bad mental state, and I'm not sure whether this has affected the quality of my writing, but if it did, I apologize. It's hard to judge because I still have some on self-doubt goggles that I can't get seem to get them off, and it's really difficult to look at your own writing from an unbiased lens anyway. Eh. I wish I could say it would be smooth sailing from here on now, but I still have school, college applications, and extra refresher courses for college admission tests to deal with, so right now, my main priorities are getting into college, getting decent grades, and getting better. **

**Eh. I hate making excuses, but you deserve an explanation. I don't know whether it's a valid explanation, but sadly, it's a truthful explanation. Again, I'm sorry.**

**Feedback would be appreciated. Constructive criticism as well. If you could tell me what I need to fix or improve on with my writing, that would be great. **

**See you next time. In the meantime, try listening to Twenty One Pilots. Read a book, watch a movie, go outside. Do things that make you happy. Pour your soul into things you enjoy. Count all the things you like about yourself and feel proud. Take care.**


	8. Russian Roulette

**Briana (D10)**

There was nothing wrong with solitude. It didn't matter that she would go in the arena alone; she would have to go out alone, anyway.

**Owen (D1), Westyn (D1), Devonna (D2), Alude (D2), Adrienne (D4), Icarus (D4)**

Alude remained solitary out of circumstance; Adrienne remained solitary out of choice. Owen and Icarus got along well enough. Westyn continued to feed Devonna lies, and Devonna eventually believed them.

**Chandra (D3), Varia (D3), Ara (D8), Grant (D8), Tawni (D12), Tobias (D12):**

As much as he hated to admit it, Grant stayed for Chandra. But they needed more. They saw the way the girl from Twelve's knives always hit their targets, and decided their target was her.

"Tobias is with us," Varia said to the broody girl. "Won't you do whatever it takes to protect the people you care about?"

And on the other side of the room, Chandra said to the meek boy, "Your friend Tawni's with us. Don't you wanna come with her?"

The lies became truths soon enough.

**Nyko (D5), Mateo (D10), **

"It was nice talking to you, Mateo."

"You know my name?"

"We've met before," Nyko said. "At the parade."

Mateo gave him a withering look. "Please don't talk about that."

**Ziva (D5), Delaney (D11)**

Fire can't fight fire, but they can make a team.

**Jesper (D6), Calia (D9)**

The mural beside the camouflage section was their doing. The depletion of the camouflage section's paint supply was also their doing.

**Pax (D6), Neleh (D7), Altair (D9)**

Altair wanted a team, but the only ones left were the girl who never thought before acting, and the girl who did nothing but think.

**Elian (D7), Edric (D11)**

Bravery was all they had in common. It was enough.

* * *

Bloodbath

* * *

Behind them, a wall of steps surrounded the ring, blocking their view of the rest of the arena. Numbers marked the floors beside their platforms. Between the wall and the platforms, a ball of colossal size whirled around them.

The Cornucopia was a roulette wheel.

It was spinning.

**Twenty-fourth. Ara Midias.**

She wanted to be like the stars, or whatever else that still shined even years after passing. But reality was, she was nothing more than a girl with a too-big smile and a too-big heart. That was simply not worth remembering.

She stepped off her platform. The mines were painless.

**Twenty-third. Pax Burgess.**

She couldn't decide where to look. Around her, in front of her, or behind her.

10…9…8….

Beside her, Varia screamed. In front of her, mines exploded, leaving a gaping hole in the space where a tribute once was.

Pax was used to bloodshed. She could stomach _this_, right?

7…6…5

Behind her, the roulette ball whirled. Paranoia filled her whenever she heard it coming. Eventually, the sound grew softer, the rolling slower.

4…3…2…

It didn't matter where she looked. There was no way out.

1…

When the ball stopped spinning, it rolled down and landed on her.

**Twenty-second. Altair Ravvos.**

Altair was the first to make it to the golden horn. Before he could leave, Alude blocked way out. A blade to the neck was all it took.

**Twenty-first. Edric Revian.**

Unlike Altair, he managed to make it out. He smiled as he ran. All of it – the thrill, the fear, the adrenaline—made him feel more alive than he ever had.

When Icarus's halberd met his nape, the feeling ended.

**Twentieth. Alude Carielle.**

Alude made a lunge for Chandra. Grant swung. He didn't think, didn't hesitate. The blade of his axe hit Alude's nape, and that was the end of it.

Out of breath, Chandra said, "Thanks."

Grant swallowed. He avoided his gaze. Then, he furrowed his eyebrows. "Who says I did it for you?"

**Nineteenth. Jesper Sargent.**

Adrienne's spear zoomed toward Calia, but Jesper pushed her out of the way.

His life was a long list of stupid decisions. Why not end it with one?

**Eighteenth. Calia Ventiere.**

Owen remembered her. She and her ally painted a mural of all of them, side by side, hands holding hands. Some of the trainers saw it as subversive, but she never meant for it to be revolutionary. She only meant for it to be cute.

Television screens made everything look easier. His mistake was falling for it. He was a fool for thinking it wouldn't be difficult. He was a fool for thinking he wouldn't feel.

Before he could react, a sword slashed the girl's neck. He turned.

Westyn smirked. "You were taking too long."

**Seventeenth. Tawni Prior.**

Chandra ran up the steps, adrenaline bursting through him.

A hand grabbed his arm from behind. In fear, he yanked it out, turned around, and pushed his attacker down.

She screamed. Her head hit the steps first, then her body rolled down. Her neck broke from the impact, and a cannon boomed.

Chandra looked closer. Fear and shock and regret ate him away when he saw her face.

It was Tawni.

**Sixteenth. Elian Thayne.**

"I'd rather die than take another life," he had said just days earlier.

Devonna's sword gave him what he wished for.

**Fifteenth. Neleh Tourrey.**

Neleh hadn't left her plate. Her heart raced, but her mess of mind was worse. She couldn't quite come up with a plan, not while she was frozen with fear. And to Adrienne, she was an easy target.

She was so lost inside her head that she'd lost her life because of it.

**Fourteenth. Ziva Langely.**

Ziva had only just made it to the top when Westyn swung her sword across her neck.

**Thirteenth. Delaney Lauris.**

Delaney was breathless once she had reached the last step.

The rest of the arena was a casino, all white-walled and brightly lit. From above, the Cornucopia looked like a pit, a sunken hole of steps and blood and bodies.

"Pretty, isn't it?"

She couldn't tell where the voice came from, and for some reason, she didn't care.

"Yeah," she said. "Pretty fucked up."

She turned to him. It was Owen from One. Though she could feel her heart racing, she didn't run. The past few days, she thought it all over, and came to terms with her fate. Death would probably be better than the shitty life after, anyway.

She smiled sadly. "You can kill me if you want to."

He looked at her with grief in his eyes and she couldn't tell whether it was for her part, or his. "I don't want to."

"Just make it quick."

Owen hesitated. Delaney closed her eyes. She could feel the uncertainty of his hands, slowly reaching for her neck. All it took was a snap, and it was over.

* * *

Day One

* * *

When Mateo found Briana, he ran so fast and held her so tight she'd forgotten why she was supposed to let go.

They'd grown close, like brother and sister, when they were in the Capitol. It didn't make sense. All they really had in common were a home district and a death sentence.

"Please stay," he said, and behind him, Nyko smiled warmly.

She hesitated. But she didn't pull away. And the more she she thought about it, the more she realized she didn't want to.

Fear was too heavy a feeling to be carried alone.

* * *

Nobody said anything. Chandra couldn't tell decide which was worse – the silence of his allies of the noise in his mind.

_It's your fault it's your fault it's your fault_

Grant walked beside him, eyes downcast. Varia had an arm over Tobias's shoulder. Every once in a while Chandra would catch Tobias casting a cold, hateful glance his way. But whenever he looked again, Tobias's eyes would fall somewhere else, his indifference deliberate, forced.

Chandra knew why.

The subject of her death was like a bruise. Something conspicuous, something obvious. Something hard to ignore.

Something that hurt when touched.

He didn't want to think about it anymore, so he turned to Grant. "You ok?" he asked.

It was a quiet reply. Shaky hands, shaky voice, shaking head. "No."

Chandra put a hand on his shoulder. "I wouldn't be here if it weren't for you. So thanks."

"I still killed someone," Grant said.

"It doesn't matter."

"You think you have the right to decide who does and doesn't matter?"

Chandra's eyes widened.

The images flashed at the back of his mind. Her body falling, her scream, her cannon.

_It's your fault it's your fault it's your fault_

He eyed Tobias. The boy was no longer looking at him. His face was buried in Varia's chest, and Chandra felt a pang of guilt.

It stung more than memory did.

* * *

Day Two

* * *

**Twelfth. Owen Brassard.**

"Poison?" Icarus asked.

Owen nodded.

He didn't understand why the sponsors chose him. He wasn't particularly popular, and hadn't had a significant number of kills. And Westyn was always the favourite. But there was no point in complaining. A gift was a gift, and it was exactly what he needed.

He was a fool for thinking he could play this game and still live with himself.

**Eleventh. Icarus Valera.**

Owen swallowed the poison.

Westyn wasn't there to see it.

She looked at Adrienne with cold eyes. "You did this, didn't you?"

"She didn't," Icarus said. "He drank it himself."

"Like I'd believe that."

Westyn swung her sword, aiming for Adrienne, and Icarus parried it. He screamed for her to run, and with wide-eyed shock and hesitation, she did.

It was a quick fight. Devonna struck him in the gut, and Westyn's blade pierced through his abdomen, through his ribs to his lungs to his back.

He didn't understand why he had done it. Adrienne paid his kindness with contempt and though Icarus had understood her reasons, he didn't understand why he decided she was worth saving.

But then he saw her. Myrene. Her hair, her eyes, her soft hands. Flickering images, flashing memories of a girl he'd once known. A girl who had made the same mistake.

He smiled a little. Maybe it wasn't always the living martyrs died for.

* * *

Day Three

* * *

**Tenth. Nyko Amadore.**

**Ninth. Briana Kobrick.**

"What kind of gun's only got one bullet?"

Mateo slammed the revolver against the slot machine in frustration.

"It's still useful," Nyko said. "Or at least, it's better than nothing."

"I don't want better than nothing. I want better than _this._" He shook the revolver in front of Nyko's face. "I'm pulling the lever again."

Briana grabbed his wrist. "That machine isn't safe."

"If it can give us a gun, it can give us more bullets."

"Mateo," she warned. "Don't."

Mateo didn't care. He pulled the lever. The three reels spun, blurring the cards in front. When it slowed, the symbols grew clearer, and to his luck, each reel stopped on the same one.

A bomb.

Without any forethought, he ran. The rest was a blur. A flash of light, a bang, then nothing.

* * *

Day Four

* * *

They didn't know how long they had been in there. There was no sky, no night to tell them when the day ended and no sun to tell them when it began.

But they hadn't eaten. Not since the games began. Chandra suggested to raid the Cornucopia, to take food and supplies while the remaining Careers slept.

"We could get killed," Varia argued.

To which, Chandra said, "Would you rather starve to death?"

"_Yes_."

None of them wanted to agree with him. Tobias knew what he'd done to Tawni and tried his hardest to forgive him, but couldn't. Varia feared the consequences. And Grant wanted to make sure all his decisions were made because they were practical, and not because he'd been convinced by some stupid boy with some stupid pretty face and stupid blue-brown eyes.

But Chandra won when they could no longer take starvation.

**Eighth. Devonna Averett.**

And they were right for doubting him. Devonna and Westyn woke up almost as soon as they came in. Chandra was the first to run—with a backpack in his hands he dashed off to the arena. Westyn raced after Grant, while the other two faced Devonna.

And Devonna had been arrogant enough to leave without a weapon. When Tobias realized this, he barreled straight for her, knocking her down.

Devonna flipped him over, pressing her hands on his neck. Tobias dug his nails into her arm, hoping to break skin, but it was useless.

When he thought it was over for him, Varia dug a knife into Devonna's nape.

She didn't take it back. Devonna's body crumpled to the ground, and Tobias pushed it aside to get up.

They didn't give the body a second look.

**Seventh. Grant Bentley.**

When Chandra asked her if she was okay, she said nothing.

Varia couldn't believe they had done it. They killed a girl together, her and Tobias – meek Tobias. Gentle Tobias. Kind Tobias.

He looked distant. His eyes looked blank.

It terrified her. Regardless, she put her arms around him. Held him tight. Buried her face into his shoulder.

She pulled away when a cannon boomed.

Varia looked at Chandra. His eyes were wide, fixed on the Cornucopia.

Whose was it, the cannon? Who was left? There were never any faces in the sky, for there wasn't a sky, and they had no way of telling who lived and who didn't. It could have been anyone. Could've been Westyn. A half-smile formed on her lips at the thought of it. Their biggest threat, gone.

But Chandra's worried voice broke the silence. "Where's Grant?"

It broke her smile, too.

* * *

Day Five

* * *

Westyn felt a small sting of grief the first day she'd spent without Devonna. As much as she hated to admit it, she missed the girl. Airheaded as Devonna was, she was also loyal. It felt nice, having someone who would never turn on her.

Adrienne hid, half in fear, half in shame. Half the time she spent dwelling on Westyn, the other half she'd spent dwelling on Icarus. How could she fight when she was too busy battling her own guilt?

Varia and Chandra drifted further and further apart. They argued more, but with no playfulness, just resentment. She hadn't forgiven him for leading them on a suicide mission. He hadn't forgiven himself. As she drifted away from him, she spent more time with Tobias. He still grieved over Tawni, and Varia knew she couldn't heal the ache, so instead, she stayed by his side so he wouldn't have to feel it alone.

Chandra only wished they could see he was grieving, too.

* * *

Day Six

* * *

By some miracle, he'd made it out. It was his fault, but he made it out.

Mateo tried to convince himself they didn't matter. That they would have died eventually anyway. But his emotions were deaf to his self-justifications. His mind started listing things. Causes and effects.

Cause: _Your irresponsibility. Your rashness. Your stubbornness. _

Effect: _One person is alive, when he shouldn't be. Two people aren't, when they should._

But he didn't want death, as much as he thought he deserved it. He wanted to see sunlight again. He wanted to see Briana and Nyko again. He wanted to see Seanna again. He wanted an impulse to act on, a compulsion, a distraction, liquor bottles to drown bottled-up emotions. He wanted forgiveness. He wanted peace. He wanted freedom from the arena, but more than that, he wanted freedom from his mind.

From a distance he could make out two figures. The boys from Three and Twelve.

And that was enough for him. Maybe it wasn't enough to get him out of the arena, but it was enough to get the anger out of his system.

It was a miracle he could still hold himself back, but a bullet shot out of compulsiveness wouldn't make its target, and Mateo wasn't an idiot. He raised his gun.

A body slammed against his from behind, knocking the gun out of his hands.

**Sixth. Varia Boulton.**

As Varia knocked Mateo over, she slid the gun across the marble floor. Chandra grabbed it that instant.

And he watched his ally from a distance. Mateo fought back, pushed her body away from his then pushed it down. Pinning her to the floor, he wrapped his hands around her throat.

"Shoot him," Tobias said. It was less an order, more a plea. "He's going to kill her. Shoot him."

Chandra raised the gun slightly, hesitantly.

"Chandra, please."

He didn't even have it in him to put his finger on the trigger. Everything he had done had never stopped haunting him. Tawni's death, Grant's, even Devonna's. Now, this. Neither option would let him have peace.

Was Varia's life worth more than Mateo's? Could his death be justified if it was to save another? Would it be wrong if he killed him? Would it be wrong if he let him kill her?

_You think you have the right to decide who does and doesn't matter?_

Her cannon boomed before he could make his decision.

**Fifth. Chandra Kiel.**

Forgive, Tobias told himself. It was the right thing, yet it didn't feel right at all. How could he? This boy killed his best friend. This boy called for a suicide mission that killed one of their allies. This boy just let his own district partner die.

Tobias realized he never really forgave. Instead he hid the anger deep within himself, deep enough that it was easy to pretend he couldn't see it. And anger was a blade. Most people wore it like thorns on their sleeves, cutting whomever came close. All his life, Tobias swallowed his anger and bled a little inside.

And he thought of Tristan. Of the bullies at home. Of the boy right beside him. Of how Tobias himself bled for so long just so they didn't have to.

Forgiveness was just a door to more hurt.

It was in that moment that three realizations hit him. Three truths that used to speak to him in whispers that now spoke to him in screams.

One: Any of them would kill for Chandra if he needed them to.

Two: Any of them, if the situation called for it, would die for Chandra.

And three: Chandra would never die for anybody.

He yanked the gun out of Chandra's hands. Thrice he pulled the trigger, but thrice it went without a blow. On the fourth, it fired at last.

**Fourth. Mateo Avener.**

He ran the minute he'd killed the girl and ran faster when he heard the second cannon. But Tobias was faster. His body slammed against his, knocking him over.

Mateo's heart raced. Tobias raised the gun, aiming for Mateo's head.

No gunshot.

Mateo laughed. Whether it was out of fear or relief, he didn't want to know.

But Tobias swung his arm. The gun slammed against his face.

Mateo reeled back, his head hitting the floor. Tobias stuck again, hitting his cheek this time. His blood tasted bitter. Bitter like steel, metal running like rivers in his mouth, over his gums to his cheeks to his teeth to his tongue to his throat. He almost choked.

He tried to fight back, reaching for Tobias's neck, but the gun swung once more. Metal collided with the front of his skull. Then the bone of his cheek. Then his jaw.

Over and over _the gun_ and over and over _the blow_ and over and over _the pain._

Spots clouded his vision. His surroundings were a fuzzy mess and the colours swirled over his eyes and all the world was silent but his heartbeat, and after another dozen blows, the pain stopped.

Mateo closed his eyes. Blood trickled down his lips, and he thought he had heard a crack when the gun slammed against his skull, but it didn't really matter. It didn't hurt anymore.

* * *

Day Seven

* * *

**Third Place. Westyn Arevalo.**

Westyn smirked the minute she found Adrienne.

Westyn drove her sword to Adrienne's chest the way she did with Icarus. Through the ribs to the lungs to her back. Adrienne fell as Westyn yanked it out.

She swung, slicing the flesh over Adrienne's stomach. She didn't want it to be quick. It didn't _need _to be quick. The rest of the careers were gone, who was left to stop her?

But in her arrogance she ignored one crucial thing: Adrienne still had her spear in her hands. Even with a weakened body, she still had enough strength to grip it. To drive it forward. To penetrate flesh.

The spearhead pierced through her throat.

**Second Place. Adrienne Cruso. **

Breathing was nearly unbearable with punctured lungs, but Adrienne willed herself to bear it. It would all be over soon.

She walked, dragging her feet across the floor. Her knees gave in. As she leaned against the wall, her body sunk to the floor, and she threw her spear aside. She would no longer need it.

Adrienne used to look down on martyrs. Now she looked up, searching for a boy that was no longer alive in a sky she could no longer see and wished there was a way for her to tell him she was grateful he gave her another day.

And it hadn't been a waste. Since his death she loathed herself for running. Since his death she feared wasting his sacrifice. Regrets plagued the past and dread plagued her future. But now it would end. Doubt would no longer haunt her. Finally, she could stop loathing herself.

_I've won._

But no one came. No voice boomed her name or named her victor; no hovercraft came to take her away.

Instead she saw a silhouette of a boy, drawing closer and closer toward her, her spear already in his hands.

**Victor. Tobias Collett**

Some years later, he was asked, "How'd you forgive yourself so fast?"

And, all hollow-eyed and unfeeling, he answered, "I was never sorry."

It was the truth. There was no reason for remorse. Any one of them would have done the same thing.

He'd been kind for too long, he thought. It was a mistake—believing any of it would make a difference. It seemed possible no act of goodness could ever leave any effect that wasn't negligible. People were too selfish. People were too cruel. There was nothing he could do to make anything better. He could only adapt, become like them.

Tristan and the rest of the boys treated him with respect when he came back. Funny. He never got that kind of respect when he was kind. Because weakness and kindness were one and the same to them. Their minds were too closed to comprehend it—how much strength it took to carry a heavy heart.

And now he was tired. He no longer wanted that burden. The world wasn't worth it. Why give a damn about a world that never give a damn about him?

The world did not deserve Tobias.

Tobias deserved the world.

* * *

A/N: If my last author's note hadn't already made it clear, I was in a bad place for a while earlier this year. I would like to say I'm in a better place now, but that just sounds like something that gets said when someone dies. Thankfully, I'm not dead. My motivation to write this story sure is, though.

Congrats to Tobias— he was one of the only two people I really considered for victor. The other was Adrienne. She was the more realistic option, but I was more drawn to Tobias. I loved him. I loved him because I shared a lot of his negative traits. I loved him because I admired all of his positive ones. I loved him because he was as good of a character as he was a person, and I loved him because he had potential to develop and drive an interesting story. In the end, he was worse than where he began, and while the change isn't something to admire, it's something that's fun to watch. I don't regret summarizing this story, but I do feel sad I wouldn't be able to tell his in full. Thank you, Jalen, for sending him in.

Thank you to everyone that submitted or read, and a bigger thanks to the few of you who reviewed. Your feedback meant the world to me.

This is Oblivion, signing Oblivioff.

Bye! :P


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